


Something stolen, something blue

by Shotgun_Cake



Series: We move like the sea [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (but only a little bit of angst), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andrés and Martín invented it, Angst, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, Established Relationship, Fluff, Found Family, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, No Smut, Strong Language, Wedding, Wedding Fluff, actual family, love is real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25024333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake
Summary: Today is the day of Andrés de Fonollosa’s very last wedding.A significant and final event. And yet, as the groom takes his time getting ready on the morning of his nuptials, everything is perfectly quiet and calm around him. There is no fuss, and there is no hesitation. At least, not on his part.~~~OR: The Berlermo Wedding Fic to follow my Berlermo Proposal Fic. Can still be read as a stand-alone.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina, Tokyo | Silene Oliveira/Tatiana (La casa de papel)
Series: We move like the sea [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807702
Comments: 197
Kudos: 189
Collections: Berlermo Bingo





	1. So many ways this could go wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/gifts).



> This story is a sequel to the events of _[Specks of gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24763120)_ , but you won't be lost if you haven't read it.  
> It's a multi-chapter this time, even though it all takes place during One Day (you can guess which day). No angst. No intrigue. Only fluff. Multiple points of view and everything.
> 
> This is a gift for the wonderful [dashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood) / @[sorrydearie](https://sorrydearie.tumblr.com/), who always lets me ramble on about headcanons and offers her precious input and ideas. If you like something in this fic, chances are she helped me come up with it. So talented it should be illegal. Please stan her.
> 
> This one goes in the [Berlermo Bingo](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Summer2020) as well, in the _Wedding Fic_ category this time! (I know it's the same box as _Proposal_ , I do what I want, different fic, different bingo).
> 
> The series title, _“We move like the sea”_ , is a line from the song _I Feel Free_ by Cream.
> 
> UPDATE: there is now a [translation of this story into Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9768806), credit once again to [purrfect_angel](https://twitter.com/angel_purrfect).  
> And also a [Spanish translation](https://www.wattpad.com/950141194-algo-robado-algo-azul-berlin-x-palermo-traducci%C3%B3n), thanks to [Ro](https://twitter.com/loliflopygomez).

Today is the day of Andrés de Fonollosa’s very last wedding.

A significant and final event. And yet, as the groom takes his time getting ready on the morning of his nuptials, everything is perfectly quiet and calm around him. There is no fuss, and there is no hesitation. At least, not on his part.

The looming celebration has been in the works for quite some time, alarming and inevitable. But the day has come, and the man that Andrés designated as his best man feels perfectly fine about it. Which is a surprise to most, himself included. 

Sergio has spent these past few months on his toes, bracing himself for this whole thing to backfire in a spectacular way. Andrés and Martín’s engagement. 

These two were chaotic from the very beginning. His brother was prone to making the absolute worst decisions, romantically speaking. Too passionate to see the flaws in those he pursues. Which makes every relationship he’s ever entered a powder keg. The day he met Martín, all Sergio could see in him was this unsettling spark in his eyes. He was the match that would light Andrés and blow everything up in the process. Wild and unpredictable. 

And those were the men Sergio chose to plan, not one, but two heists with him. Successfully.

Sometimes, he would wake up with a jolt in the middle of the night, panting and covered in sweat, still coming down from the realization that they all made it out of the bank. With the gold. With their _lives_. 

And right after the heist, of course, there was the proposal. 

That day on the boat, when Raquel tugged at his arm to get his attention, he thought she was joking. 

_“I think your brother is about to get proposed to.”_

Sergio felt something he’d never felt outside of the heists before. Something like foreboding. A bone-chilling sense of dread.

_Hora cero. The bombs have been activated, Professor._

This was worse than the heists. This was the one thing that would wipe them out entirely. 

Andrés had changed quite a bit in the years he’d known Martín. He grew bolder, more passionate. Dangerous too. Even more so after they chose to pursue each other romantically, since that dreadful night in Florence five years ago. The exact thing Sergio had just warned Andrés against. How miscalculated that move had been on his part.

And yet, the two of them seemed to thrive together. In a codependent, dysfunctional way. Unlike anything Sergio had seen before. But his brother claimed to have found in Martín the secret to his own salvation, so Sergio was left with no choice but to be happy for them. And he had been, genuinely. More than a little stunned that it had worked out so far. But happy. Pleasantly surprised. 

An engagement, however, was a whole other story. One that could only end badly, based on Andrés’s history. Sergio knew all too well what planning a wedding, what _getting married,_ turned his brother into. He’d gone through it _five times_ already. And it had never been pretty.

That day, on the deck, it was the sound of Denver’s laugh that dragged Sergio away from his bleak reflection.

_“Are you seeing this, Professor? Is this fucking real?”_

_“It seems so”_ , he replied in a daze.

 _“No it’s not! I mean, you know them, right?”,_ Denver continued between two fits of laughter. _“The kind of people they are? Getting married? It’s so not happening. I’m telling you, we won’t see the day!”_

That was what Sergio had been fearing as well. He was no longer blind to his brother’s darkest tendencies. And Martín… well, the man wasn’t exactly what he’d call emotionally stable. Neither of them was an ideal choice to marry. Let alone, marry _each other._

But still, Sergio was taken aback when he looked at Andrés, in this moment. Holding Martín in his arms like he was the most precious thing he’d ever touched. Laughing as he wiped the tears he thought they couldn’t see. Rushing below deck, unbothered and wild and free. Sergio had looked, and maybe he’d seen something else. An opportunity to hope for the best, for once.

The months that followed went by surprisingly fast, and Sergio’s initial pessimism was proven wrong each and every day. And he wasn’t the only one. 

He remembers that video call, the look on Denver’s face when Palermo informed him he’d just been appointed as his best man. He didn’t _ask_ him if he wanted the job, he just told him point blank. And of course, he made it sound like he was doing the boy a favor. 

_“It was so unlikely that there would even be an opening for you! Wouldn’t you know, my obvious choice for a best man isn’t available on my wedding day. Prior commitment. Apparently, he’s getting married too, can you believe? I mean, Denver, what are the chances? That my_ best friend _and I would get married on the exact same day, uh? It’s uncanny! So really, you should feel incredibly lucky that you were even considered.”_

Once the initial shock wore off, Denver ended up taking his position as a best man very seriously. Perhaps, too seriously, if there is any truth to the rumors circulating about the bachelor party Denver threw for Martín, last week in Athens. Sergio heard many outrageous stories about that night. Some of the anecdotes contradict themselves. But he was shown a few videos, and could piece a few things together. There are at least three events that definitely occurred. 

Firstly, a party bus full of male strippers was involved - courtesy of the overzealous best man - and said strippers ended up being bribed by Martín to ensure that Denver received more lap dances than anyone else. 

Secondly, the bachelor party somehow involved a private nighttime visit in a museum, with allegations of the party bus being _inside_ the building at some point (unconfirmed). 

And thirdly, that fateful night included a trip to the emergency room due to, not one, but two allergic reactions to body glitter. Río and Manila bonded over their shared pain in the waiting room.

But it wasn't only the bachelor party. Denver was also the one to blame for the choice of wedding location. It was just an offhand comment about how Berlín was _“such a pretentious asshole he would end up getting married in some sort of Dracula-looking castle or something”_. Andrés had just smiled and refrained from commenting - which should have rung some alarms - and he came to Sergio a mere three days later with pictures of the Palace of the Grand Master. It isn't even remotely _Dracula-looking,_ but it is very much of a castle of Gothic architectural style, located by the seaside somewhere in the Greek archipelago. Denver considered it an unmitigated victory, obviously.

Every time Martín face-timed with his best man - at least once a week for the past few months - Sergio could hear Andrés huff and puff, saw him roll his eyes and shake his head, quite ostensibly. Allegedly annoyed by his fiancé’s enthusiastic rants. But Sergio also saw the barely contained smiles on his face, heard the muffled laughs. Andrés couldn't help but be amused. Proud, even. 

And just like that, Sergio simply decided to give this a chance. Now that he’d started seeing it, there was no going back. He saw every day how the prospect of getting married made them happy. Hell, how it made them _better_. And worse, too. The screaming matches for petty reasons. The equally loud reconciliations. The silences, somehow worse than the yelling. 

But Sergio was a big picture kind of guy, and he saw, eventually, how this could be good. How, against all odds, this might actually be the best case scenario for his brother. And for Martín as well. It took him six months, the six months that went by since the proposal - or maybe it took him five years, really - but Sergio did come around. 

And here he is, on his brother’s wedding day, finally having made his peace with the notion that Martín Berrote is about to become his brother in law. Still, he can’t help but worry. The Professor never truly left him after the heists ended. And today of all days, he feels the persona, heavy on his shoulders.

On the Island of Rhodes, inside the imposing Gothic palace by the sea, Sergio is pacing back and forth on the stone floors. It’s just the two of them, in this luxury bedroom Andrés claimed as his dressing room for the day. A gentle breeze is coming in through the open window, and yet Sergio feels warm and stuffy in his suit. He knows it can’t all be blamed on the late summer weather.

Andrés just admires himself in one of the many floor length mirrors on the wall. His burgundy blazer _really suits him_ , as Sergio was forced to remind him several times today. But no matter how exquisite the velvet is, or how nicely the color flatters his complexion, Sergio cannot help but think Andrés looks dangerous in it. The dark shade, an echo of red jumpsuits stained with blood.

Sergio keeps throwing nervous glances through the window. The gardens outside are empty. And the ruins of the medieval church remain deserted, this early in the morning. Still, he feels uncomfortable. Exposed. He really wishes he’d brought some origami paper.

“Stop fidgeting, hermanito”, Andrés intervenes, a smile in his voice. “It’s _me_ who should be nervous.”

His brother never liked having the attention pulled away from him. Especially on days like this one. And so, Andrés goes on.

“But _am I nervous?_ Just look at me. Calm and serene. Not a single wrinkle. And that, dear brother, is because I don’t _frown_. Unlike you right now. Why can’t you share my joy? It’s this place, Sergio. I swear I can sense the gods smiling down at us.”

Sergio wants to comment on his brother's shameless lie about wrinkles. Andrés does look great, but he's not thirty anymore. Instead, he decides to voice his concerns. Again.

“This is a terrible idea”, he says, for what feels like the hundredth time. “Andrés, there are so many ways this could go wrong and-”

“You can stop right there”, his brother interjects, and his tone is suddenly cutting.

Andrés looks away from the mirror and straight at him. His upbeat demeanor has vanished, replaced by an intimidating posture and an icy stare that pins Sergio on the spot. 

When Andrés speaks again, it’s _Berlín’s_ voice that Sergio hears.

“You won’t talk me out of this, _Professor._ I’m insulted that you would even try. I will _not_ hear it. Not today. Spend the rest of the year whining about him if you have to, but _por favor,_ not today.”

Sergio does a double take, stunned.

“I’m not- I wasn’t- Andrés, this isn’t about _Martín_.”

“You’re right, it isn’t. This is about respect. I know you two aren’t exactly friends, but I exp-”

“No, you don’t understand!”, Sergio protests, tired of his brother’s self righteous tirades. “I’m fine with you marrying him, I really am. More than fine, actually. This might be the best thing that could have happened to you. No, Andrés, I’m talking about this place. Greece. _Europe._ We said-”

Andrés's roaring laughter cuts him off.

“You said no to the _Tour Eiffel_ , and you said no to the _Colosseum_. If you think I'm backing out now, you don't know a single thing about me. I already went out of my way to accommodate your anxieties, Sergio. Enough is enough.”

Andrés is in a drastically better mood than a moment ago, but his tone is final. He turns his back to Sergio before he can get another word in. 

He fiddles with his hair, probably for the fifth time. He looks fine already. Sergio isn’t even sure what needs fixing. Then a smile slowly appears on his brother’s face as he catches his eye in the mirror.

“So... Martín is the best thing that could happen to me, now?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

“Humor me, will you? After all, it’s my wedding day.”

This is the twenty-seventh time Andrés has reminded him in the last hour. Sergio isn’t anywhere close to forgetting it.

“He’s grown on you, hasn’t he?”, Andrés continues, amused. “What eventually persuaded you? The lavish lifestyle we can all afford thanks to Martín’s brilliant mind? Or is it the heartwarming speech he gave at the rehearsal dinner?”

He shivers. This _heartwarming speech_ was one of the most obscene things he’d ever heard. Sergio’s chair nearly toppled over in his hurry to cover Paula’s ears (Cincinnati, thankfully, was already asleep by then). 

And now, Andrés is looking at Sergio expectantly - waiting for him to shower Martín with praise - after he just refreshed his memory about yesterday. He knows his brother well enough to assume he did that on purpose.

“You know it’s not- He’s always been, um- a bit much.”

Andrés widens his eyes in mock indignation. It’s not as charming as he thinks it is.

“Are you really going to besmirch the good name of the spouse I have chosen? On the day of our union?”

_And here comes the twenty-eighth mention that Andrés is getting married._

“I like how happy he's making you”, Sergio concedes. “And I don’t think he could ever leave you even if he tried.”

“That's better. You may continue.”

“I know he really loves you. Way more than any of the others.” 

Andrés winces at that. As though he’d forgotten he was married before, up until Sergio had the gall to bring it up. Knowing how self-centered he could get, perhaps he did forget. Regardless, Sergio keeps talking. 

“And, well, it just took me a while to see- to understand that Martín could be good for you. Maybe I was- I was wrong to think this engagement was a mistake.”

Andrés nearly drops the card he’s holding. His wedding vows.

“You thought it was a _mistake?”,_ he asks, smiling in disbelief. “And you never said anything? I’m not sure I recognize you today, hermanito.”

“Listen. Just because I’m not worried about the two of you, doesn’t mean it’s not a bad idea. The island welcomes a lot of tourists this time of year.”

“We’ve booked the entire estate, no one will randomly walk in. I even assigned Río and Tokyo as lookouts, just as a precaution.”

He looks proud of himself, like he’s waiting for Sergio to gush over how careful he’s being. Well, he can wait.

“You’re not in the bank anymore Andrés, you can’t just order them around like that.”

“I can do whatever I want, it’s my wedding day.”

 _Twenty-nine times_. Thank god for that. Sergio would have forgotten otherwise.

“I probably did everyone a favor.” Andrés continues. “Their relationship sets a bad example, they emit toxic energies, Sergio. Their mere presence could have upset Martín.”

Sergio smiles at that. Andrés did grow soft.

“Besides, I’m sure they’d rather be frolicking in the outdoors than tending to Martín’s needs, right now. Or to mine, for that matter.”

“They broke up again”, Sergio explains. “Sending them _together_ isn’t a good move either.”

“What is it, the third time? How am I expected to keep up? Is there anything else I should know? Is Lisbon having an affair? With Helsinki?”

“I know you think you’re extremely funny, but please don’t joke about that”, Sergio sighs. 

Andrés puts a hand on his shoulder, and Sergio realizes he’s been fidgeting again. He stops.

“You’re nervous about Raquel”, he says with a knowing smile. “You don’t need to be. Marriage is a blessing, hermanito! And you _will_ marry this one.”

“You don’t know that”, Sergio retorts, regretting - not for the first time - ever discussing the topic with his brother.

“Of course I know”, Andrés reassures him, and he does seem pretty sure. “The woman uprooted her entire life for you. Followed you halfway across the globe with mother and child. She's not scared of commitment.”

Sergio wants to believe him. Andrés keeps talking.

“I still believe the proposal will happen here”, he taunts. “Have you even looked around? You won’t find anything like that back home.”

“I thought I was forbidden from proposing at your wedding.”

“Of course you are! It would be extremely vulgar and tasteless of you”, Andrés rants. “I didn’t mean _today._ Martín and I have booked the castle for another week. You don’t need to leave tonight.”

Sergio is genuinely touched by his brother’s optimism. By his- hospitality. But he’s also in quite a hurry to put as much distance between his family and _Europe_ as he possibly can.

“I’m not sticking around after the wedding. It’s way too dangerous”, Sergio explains. “Besides, I know how you and Martín get. I won't be the only one rushing out the door before you two start getting- um…”

“Intertwined?”

Andrés has a shit-eating grin and Sergio sends him a death glare.

“Please, never say that again.” 

“Deem yourself lucky. My beloved would have phrased it differently.”

He’s got a point. Sergio’s memory is providing him with several of the lewd comments and innuendos he’s had to suffer from his future brother in law. There are so many traumatizing examples to choose from. From the rehearsal dinner alone…

Before Sergio’s mind can torture him further, the heavy, engraved double-doors are being pushed open.

“We’re ready to go!”, Denver announces, panting as he rushes through the doorway. “Mónica is done coaching Cincinnati, he’ll be waiting with the rings!”

“Oh, we're not doing that”, Andrés casually announces, and based on the look on Denver’s face, this is clearly a blow for him. 

“Why not? I swear Berlín, he’ll be the best ring bearer you’ve ever had. At least don’t say no until you’ve seen him in his little suit. He's so cute, he’ll melt your heart!”

Sergio feels bad for him. Poor Denver was sorely mistaken if he thought that was the argument that would sway his brother.

“He's a _child”,_ Andrés says, disdain clear in his voice. “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t trust Río to hand over the rings, and he's the youngest age I find tolerable.”

“He's twenty-three, Berlín”, Denver objects. “And I’ve seen you put a handgun in his hands. _Today!”_

“A handgun is harder to lose than a pair of rings, even for a child.”

Sergio smiles knowingly. Andrés is not telling the whole truth about his apparent disdain for children. Not that he would contradict his brother in front of Denver. But he does know that Andrés has been getting along with Paula quite a bit, in the little corner of paradise they call home. Andrés deems the girl bright and curious, and often probes her for embarrassing stories about her _boring step-father_. Paula likes that Andrés actually listens to what she has to say, be it about books or art or her family, and she appreciates that he never speaks to her in a patronizing tone. Or maybe he does, it’s hard to tell the difference. The truth is Andrés has never had to interact with a child before, so he never learned how. He just spoke to Paula like he would anyone else. Sergio has been quite surprised at how comfortable they all have been, spending time together even when they didn’t need to. He’s still thankful for the fact that Andrés and Martín have their own separate house, down the street from where he lives with Raquel and her family. But they do spend most days together. Who would have thought his brother would take a liking to this familial aesthetic? 

Andrés is looking at Denver in the doorway, his lips twisted in displeasure.

“You're still here”, he observes with reproach in his tone. “Weren't you supposed to be with Martín today? I believe he drew the short straw when we assigned you.”

“Come on, you _know_ I’m his best man.”

“If that’s what you insist on calling it. Well, shouldn’t you be in his room, then?”

“ _Everyone_ is in his room! He's spiraling.”

Denver’s eyes widen as he seems to realize what he just blurted out.

“Is he, now?”, Andrés asks, raising a single eyebrow.

His tone is even, his composure impeccable. Not betraying an ounce of concern on his part. But Sergio knows him better than that. His brother is worried. Denver stumbles over his words as he answers.

“I mean, not- not _spiraling,_ and you definitely shouldn't go see him right now. But it’s just- Palermo has been diffic- uh, very emotional, is all.”

Sergio is surprised his brother is still standing by his side - as opposed to shoving Denver away and rushing through the doors while shouting at the top of his lungs. 

Rarely has he heard someone blurt out so many wrong things in a row. On the list of things that can set Andrés off, expressing concern about Martín is pretty high. So is telling him what to do, or in this case, not to do.

“Denver”, Sergio warns.

“Wha- But he _is_ emotional! He thinks the decorations are too simple, and that mister-wedding-expert over here is gonna hate the flowers.”

“Now that's just nonsense. I checked on them when they arrived. They’re perfect.”

“Palermo said they’re not the ones you picked”, Denver explains miserably.

“There was a slight mix-up with the order, it’s true”, Andrés concedes, and this is the first time Sergio is hearing about it. “But the florist was very apologetic, and she made wonderful last minute arrangements. Those flowers are gorgeous. Timely.”

Sergio, for the first time today, actually worries _about Andrés_. It’s not like him to be this accommodating. Something similar happened at his third wedding, a mix-up with catering. And Sergio had to physically stop him from strangling someone. Twice. But today, Andrés is being reasonable? It just doesn’t add up.

Before he can ask, Nairobi barges in too.

“Denver, thank god you’re here, I need-”

“Good morning to you too, Nairobi”, Andrés interrupts, sarcasm dripping from his entire being. “I’m in the room as well, in case you hadn’t noticed. Or am I no longer a priority, today?”

She gives him a quick once-over as she keeps talking, aligning words at full speed without taking any breaths.

“Yes, Berlín, I see you. Cool suit, very handsome, gonna soak a lot of panties today- Denver, _I need to talk to you. Now_.”

Denver looks defeated as he replies.

“It’s okay, you can say it in front of them. I- I kind of let it out already.”

Nairobi puts a comforting hand on his forearm before turning to face them.

“Alright then, one of _you two_ ”, she says as she points to Sergio and Denver, “needs to fire the musicians. I don't know what the fuck happened, but they were in there for like ten seconds and Palermo started bawling. I believe he’s cursed everybody out and he- well, he broke things.”

“I'll go talk to him.”

Nairobi raises her hands at Andrés, standing between him and the doorway.

“No no no Berlín… Berlín! You know it's bad luck.”

“Don't you know by now that luck is on our side, Nairobi?”, Andrés huffs, laughter in his voice. “Superstition simply doesn't affect us. Haven’t you seen the statue right outside in the courtyard? _Fortuna_. I don’t suppose you brushed up on your divinities before showing up today. Well, if you had, you would know that she’s-”

“She’s the Greek goddess of luck and good fortune!”

Sergio doesn’t know if he’s more shocked at Río peeking his head through the door and cutting him off, or amused at the face his brother is pulling right now.

“You sent us to the gardens with nothing to do”, Río explains after a moment of silence, slightly out of breath. “You’re not the only one who can read a plaque, you know.”

“Why are you here?”, Sergio asks.

“To call you both to the altar”, Río announces with a smile. “Everything’s handled.”

“And Martín?”, Andrés worries.

“Tokyo says it’s fine.”

Andrés lets out a laugh, and there’s no humor in it.

“Well, now I really need to check on him.”

Before he can, a fourth head appears in the doorway. 

“Tokyo, feel free to join us. Please, tell me you weren’t just with my fiancé.”

“What? No, I barely spoke to Palermo today”, she snaps defensively. “I went looking for the girl. Nice. Very pretty! She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well, she must’ve done _something”_ , Nairobi intervenes.

“I was _there_ when she spoke to him”, Tokyo insists. “All she said was some generic congrats. Nothing weird. _Which means,_ there’s nothing to fix. Whatever stages of grief he's going through right now, it's on him. Probably on Berlín too.”

“Thank you so much Tokyo for your words of comfort”, Andrés mocks. “Now all of you, move out of the way so I may have a word with my husband to be.”

Río and Denver try blocking the doorway, but before Nairobi can shut the heavy wooden panels, they hear a very distinct shout. 

_“La concha de tu madre!”_

It echoes across the corridor quite beautifully. Well, Andrés did gush over the acoustics of this place. 

Sergio sighs.

“Maybe you should talk to Martín.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No need to panic, maybe Martín just ran out of milk or something…
> 
> ~~~
> 
>  _«[You know those days where you're like, this might as well happen?](https://puduhegepa.tumblr.com/post/622732615365148672/something-stolensomething-blue-by) »_ \- John Mulaney


	2. Runaway bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín is running in circles in his dressing room. He’s uncomfortably warm in his three piece suit, and he would absolutely tear the whole thing off, if it weren’t for the fact that Andrés picked it for him.

Martín is running in circles in his dressing room. He’s uncomfortably warm in his three piece suit, and he would absolutely tear the whole thing off, if it weren’t for the fact that Andrés picked it for him. Cream-colored, and in a very tight cut. He had it custom made, actually. 

Three other people are in the room with him, but Martín feels completely alone. Stockholm is on the couch, focusing on a fussy Cincinnati, and Bogotá is sitting in a corner with his nose stuck in a book about reproduction. Not even a sexy one, there’s the word _fertility_ in the title, and that’s just gross. Doesn’t he already have a whole litter of kids? This needs to stop at some point. 

In this very moment, Martín hates everyone and everything with equal passion. 

He hates the sounds coming in through the window, of Paula laughing outside as she plays with Marsella's Labrador puppy. He hates Marsella for bringing the cute little thing in the first place, and he hates the dog for having the audacity of being named Lucky. Oh, the irony of that name is not lost on Martín, not today. 

He hates that Stockholm and Bogotá are both ignoring him. He hates that everyone else just abandoned the ship - he did scream at them to leave him alone, but that’s neither here nor there - and he hates that the only ones who did stay are living, breathing reminders of heteronormativity and the urge to procreate. Andrés claims he wants no part in that either, but since when does Andrés actually know what he wants?

Martín hates that he cannot calm his nerves on his own, like a well-adjusted person could. He hates the toddler pointing at him and laughing at his outburst, and he hates how good it felt when Mónica hugged him just now, as he was crying. 

In the back of his mind, Martín knows he’s being irrational. But he has no way of reassuring himself, as he didn’t get to see Andrés today. Just one look from him and he would feel at ease again. Just the sound of his voice and he could even be convinced to behave. 

But no, Denver and Manila - who hasn’t been appointed _Assistant to the Best Man_ , by the way - basically decided to kidnap him after the rehearsal dinner. And he’s been sequestrated in one of the castle’s many luxury bedrooms.

While Andrés was left alone. No, not alone. With his brother. 

That knowledge alone could send Martín straight into another breakdown. 

He remembers all too well how things went down, last time Sergio tried to stand between him and Andrés. Over five years ago. But today Martín isn’t there with him, to break down Andrés’s barriers and kiss his worries away. To get shoved against a wall and get kissed some more, as is his right. He isn’t there to convince Andrés all over again that he's making the right decision.

Martín hasn’t seen him in over twelve hours. For all he knows, Andrés could very well be halfway across the globe by now. Having cocktails on a beach in Costa Rica, gawking at tourists in bikinis. 

That would be just Martín’s luck. That even a man who’s basically addicted to getting married would turn into a runaway bride right before marrying him.

Someone pops back in, signaling their presence with a prompt knock on the open door. Helsinki looks as undisturbed as he did when he left the room, as though the crying and the screaming didn’t affect him one bit. Martín’s tears have already dried. They came and went, and he doesn’t feel like crying anymore. 

He’s trying to come to terms with his new life. All the tears in the world aren’t gonna stop Andrés from trekking in the jungle with scantily clad women, so what’s even the point? Instead, he feels antsy. Agitated. Which makes sense, considering the major life changes he’s processing right now.

Helsinki came back with tissues and a box of cough drops, and Martín is not coughing, but he did use his voice quite a lot, so he grabs two of the honey flavored lozenges before blowing his nose pathetically. 

“Is this helping?”, his friend eventually asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, thanks a lot.”

Martín isn’t sure if he’s being sarcastic or not. His voice is hoarse, so it does sound like sarcasm regardless of what he means. Still, he’s surprised by his own civility. He just cursed Denver's entire bloodline when he dropped his cuff-links - he didn’t lose them or damage them in any way, but they did hit the floor and Martín almost fainted. Well, Denver probably deserved it. But Helsi didn’t do anything. He definitely had no part in smuggling Andrés out of the country in the middle of the night. Sergio wouldn’t have made the mistake of involving the gang in his evil master-plan.

Martín starts sucking on another cough drop. His hands are shaking and he hears the broken sound of his own laughter. Is that how alcoholics feel when they go sober cold turkey? Agitation. Withdrawal. So that's how long it takes, then. For Martín. Twelve hours without Andrés for the first symptoms to appear. Fascinating.

He swallows the cough drop before speaking again.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if Nairobi still carries pills, do you?”

Helsinki winces.

“Please, never ask her that. It’s a very sore spot.”

Ugh. The one thing she was good for, and she had to turn to banknote forgery and stop carrying drugs. Just what he needs right now.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”, Helsinki offers, and Martín thinks very hard on it, instead of freaking out again. 

Is there anything Helsinki _can_ do? Besides fixing his entire wedding? 

Assuming Andrés is still on the continent, that is. Which he probably isn't. But let’s pretend he is, as a mental exercise. What could Helsinki do, then, to help Martín survive the day? So many things went wrong, big and small. 

A mix-up with the florist got them more flowers than expected, but not the ones Andrés chose. The musicians were lacking a pianist, and Martín had to agree to a last minute replacement by a guest that he really shouldn't have to interact with right now. And he just has this nagging feeling that the palace is not big enough, not sophisticated enough.

What is there to fix?

The flowers are wrong, the musicians are wrong, the castle is wrong. Because none of it was Andrés’s first choice. 

Because Martín wasn’t Andrés’s first choice. 

He just got extremely lucky, for a little while. And now it's over. 

Not a pill in sight, then. He wasn’t even looking for the hard stuff, just something soothing. But no luck on that front. There’s a bottle of gin on the dresser, but it’s a little early for day drinking. Maybe later, when no one can see him.

“Where’s the milk?”, he blurts out.

Stockholm looks apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Cincinnati just finished the bottle”, she explains.

_“La concha de tu madre!”_

Martín gets nothing. Not even _one_ thing.

Stockholm stands up and grasps both of his hands, looking at him intently. 

“I was a bit jittery on my wedding day too, Palermo. But I feel compelled to remind you that he’s barely three years old. And that it’s me, _su madre_.”

She sounds like that nice teacher who reprimands the kids without ever raising her voice. Martín hates it. He would rather she screamed in his face. 

He _needed_ that glass or milk. It might be the last thing standing between him and full-blown hysteria.

“I don't blame you Stockholm”, he says, freeing his hands from her gentle grasp. “I'm sure the little menace takes after Denver more than you-” 

“Hey!”, shouts a voice from behind him, and when did Denver get back here? 

“- _but_ I really need something to calm down right now. Usually I have Andrés for that, but it’s not an option now, is it? And I'm not touching that stupid gin your husband gave me.”

“Hey!”, Denver repeats, and he’s in Martín's line of sight this time.

“I need to be lucid, Denver”, he explains, gesticulating wildly to get his point across. “Assuming I’m still getting married today, I want to remember _everything_.”

“Oh don't worry _cariño_ , you are most definitely getting married today.”

Martín nearly gets whiplash from how fast he turns around on his feet. 

“Andrés”, he whispers, and he's not sure anyone else heard it.

The first thing Martín notices is that he can actually see Andrés with his own eyes and can hear his voice clearly. So, based on those signs, it's fair to assume that his fiancé most likely isn’t in Costa Rica after all. 

The second thing he notices is that he’s breathing fine again. As though a boa constrictor had been wrapped around his chest, and he’s just realizing it now that it’s gone.

His anger and his pain - even his frantic gesticulating - it all stops the moment he meets Andrés’s eyes. He feels like one of Paula’s animated dolls, those that sing and dance around the house. Someone just took out Martín’s batteries, and now he’s frozen in place. He could probably sink to the floor right now, if he didn't have Andrés’s piercing gaze holding him in place.

So it appears Martín is marrying this man today. 

Isn’t that far-fetched?

There is an appreciative smile on Andrés’s face as he’s looking him over, and Martín feels his face heat up.

“You’ve been pulling at your hair, haven’t you?”

Martín just laughs. There are two broken chairs just behind him, and shards of porcelain on the floor near the door (who puts that many decorative plates in _one room_?). And still, the state of Martín’s hair is the one thing Andrés takes issue with?

His body is almost vibrating. And not from anxiety.

Andrés should be running to him and pulling Martín's hair as he kisses him. That would give him a good reason for being disheveled. And the beauty of it all, is that he wouldn’t even need to ask. Because he _knows_ Andrés is thinking the same thing. He wishes the room wasn’t so full right now - when did everyone suddenly get back here? _Coño_ , even Sergio’s in here now.

Andrés is scanning the room as well, and when he speaks again, it’s in a monotone and commanding voice.

“Denver, there’s a kitchen downstairs, see if you can find any milk. You’re his best man, that should have been your priority. Nairobi, can you please grab that comb on the dresser and take care of _that?_ Río, hand me those cuff-links.”

To Martín’s surprise, all three of them comply, and he feels a gentle brushing sensation in his hair as Nairobi starts fixing the mess his shaky hands created. As soon as Río steps aside, Andrés approaches Martín and grabs his wrists. Efficiently, methodically, he puts the cuff-links on his shirt and fixes every problem in his life.

“Everyone else, please go outside and take your seat. We won’t be long”, Andrés orders. 

He's straightening Martín's bow-tie for some reason. Martín is almost positive that it didn't need any adjusting. But Andrés’s fingers are brushing against his neck in the process. And _that,_ Martín needs.

He barely registers Stockholm dragging her boy outside. Out of the corner of his eye, he might see Helsinki and Bogotá approaching the door as well.

“I’m waiting outside this room”, Sergio says, because he lives to ruin Martín’s life. “You have five minutes.”

When Nairobi is satisfied with his hair, she grabs Río’s arm and drags him outside, Sergio in tow. She’s even astute enough to close the door behind herself. Maybe Martín should have chosen her as his best man, instead.

Finally, they’re alone. Martín tries not to blurt out something stupid in his shaky voice. Andrés just looks at him. _Examines him,_ would be more accurate. He feels naked under his gaze.

“You're beautiful, Martín”, he eventually says.

He seems proud of it, too. Like he’s complimenting his own handiwork. Like _he_ created this. In many ways, he did. 

“ _I’m_ beautif- Is there, perhaps, no mirror in your room?”, he replies, as flirty as he can be. “You’re… Andrés you’re a vision.”

He shakes his head at him, like he’s being ridiculous.

“You’ve seen me on a wedding day before, Martín.”

Not like that. Never for him.

“I guess you have that glow you didn’t have the other times”, he teases. “I wonder what’s different…”

Martín’s hands find Andrés’s shoulders, not quite holding him, but maintaining a touch. He’s always loved his shoulders, but in this suit? He looks divine. Like one of those statues outside.

“I deduce this little outburst doesn’t mean you’re having second thoughts about marrying me, then?”, Andrés asks, and it just might be the most absurd thing Martín has ever heard.

He doesn’t know whether to start laughing or crying again. He just squeezes his shoulders and smiles.

“Oh yeah, I’m running away. Big time”, Martín replies, because if Andrés is gonna start saying stupid shit, why not follow his lead. “I was waiting until the very last moment, so I could actually stand you up _at the altar_. You know, for dramatic effect.”

Andrés smiles and gently traces his fingertips up the side of Martín's face. It's a lot. He stops right under his eye, where the tears have dried. He doesn’t ask, but Martín answers anyway.

“I was just getting it all out of my system a bit early”, he simplifies, and it’s not technically a lie. Martín got _a lot of things_ out of his system today. “That way, I can look composed for the pictures.”

Andrés laughs, a beautiful thing that tilts his head back and reveals his throat. Martín wants to bury his face in it. When his laughter has died down, Andrés wraps a hand behind his neck, bringing their faces closer. Martín leans into the touch and feels a thumb stroking his cheekbone.

“Try not to appear _too_ composed. Or one might think you’re entirely indifferent to the prospect of marrying me.”

Yeah, that’s not gonna be an issue.

“Why don't you give me a taste of what I'm signing up for, um?”

Martín doesn’t wait for an answer. 

He leans in to close the already short distance between them, and presses his lips against Andrés’s. 

He doesn’t know if it’s because of the way Andrés is cradling his face in his hands, like he’s holding something fragile, or if it’s due to the fact Martín had convinced himself he would never ever see this man again, but this feels like a first kiss. 

Soft and tender, almost tentative. Martín wraps his arms fully around Andrés’s shoulders and holds him close, feels him everywhere as he pokes at his lips with the tip of his tongue. 

It’s like flipping a switch. Suddenly Andrés is kissing him passionately, _aggressively._ He’s walking Martín backwards until his legs bump against the dresser, and he can't say he’s displeased by this turn of events. There is comfort in Andrés’s intensity. Familiarity. And the way his tongue is brushing against Martín’s is intoxicating. 

Andrés is filling his senses, and yet he cannot get enough of him. Martín's hands are palming at his back now, pulling him closer, and not close enough, still. Andrés starts groaning into his mouth, and now it’s his suit that Martín wants to tear off of him. They can get married some other time. This feels more pressing right now.

As if on cue, the door bursts open. Andrés has the decency to keep kissing him while their respective best men are barging in.

“Fuck, is that porcelain? I almost slipped on that!”, Denver complains, and Martín kind of wishes he had slipped.

Sergio just clears his throat, and eventually - regrettably - Andrés pulls away from the kiss. Martín would feel a twinge of disappointment, but looking at Andrés right now, in the state he’s in, is also a treat in and of itself.

“Alright, you two, time to get married!”, Denver says, bright and peppy, completely unfazed by the fact Andrés still has Martín backed against the dresser. 

“I suppose this is reason enough to postpone this little _rendez-vous_ ”, Andrés concedes, taking a few steps back. “I’ll see you at the altar, Martín.”

“I’ll be the hot guy in the white suit.”

“It’s ivory”, Andrés corrects right before he disappears from view.

While they can still hear him from the corridor, Martín yells:

“By the way, you have the _worst_ timing, Sergio! I bet Lisbon says that to you every night too!”

The echo of Andrés’s laughter across the high ceilings is the last thing he hears from them.

Denver laughs as well, loud and grating as usual. But it does sound like he’s laughing at Sergio right now, and Martín remembers why he chose him. He swallows back the _timing related_ quip he also had in mind for his own best man.

“Are we ready or what?”, Denver asks with a smile.

“You should probably clean that up at some point”, Martín suggests, pointing to the mess he made with the decorative plates and antique chairs. “But other than that, you better believe we’re fucking ready.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but does Andrés _really_ want to get married though? Unclear. So many mixed signals.


	3. Purple bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he caught a glimpse of his fiancé on their wedding day, the first thing Andrés felt was anger. He didn’t let it show, obviously. But it was there. He was mad at Martín. And rightfully so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who might be curious, the wedding location is inspired by [an actual Gothic Palace in Greece](https://www.greece-is.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/RHODES_PALACE_OF_THE_GRANDE_MASTERS_01.jpg) that Andrés would absolutely swoon over. It has lavish gardens where [ruins of a medieval church](https://www.greece-is.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/RHODES_PALACE_OF_THE_GRANDE_MASTERS_06.jpg) still stand to this day. And within the walls of the castle, there's [a courtyard that's just very neat](https://www.greece-is.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/RHODES_PALACE_OF_THE_GRANDE_MASTERS_02.jpg), surrounded by galleries and statues. Whether the palace also has bedrooms or can be privately booked is pure speculation on my part.

When he caught a glimpse of his fiancé on their wedding day, the first thing Andrés felt was anger. He didn’t let it show, obviously. But it was there. He was mad at Martín. And rightfully so. 

He felt betrayed. 

Insulted that Martín could ever doubt him in that way. Or had his faith in Andrés started to falter already? Were the many proofs of his love slipping away from Martín’s careless, trembling hands?

There was a vein on Martín’s neck, just above his collar. Andrés noticed it as he spoke. Martín’s heart was pounding, furiously pumping blood through that vein. Andrés wanted to press his fingers against it, to drag his teeth across the flushed skin. He wanted to kiss his insecurities away, to nibble at his neck and replace all the sounds of his fear with whimpers of delight, a broken voice calling out his name. 

Andrés needed to insinuate his love into Martín’s body, until all notion of doubt was but a distant and embarrassing memory. 

Martín seemed to shrink, in his panic. As he trembled and swore and paced in the monumental room, he became smaller and smaller. A fragile, capricious little thing. It was only when Andrés entered the room and laid his hands on him that Martín grew to his full stature once again. Andrés looked at him, touched him, and breathed life into him. 

By his sacred kiss, Martín was Martín again. 

Oh, how Andrés had loathed seeing him like that. Weak and plagued with doubt. Faithless. 

Although, if he had to be entirely truthful, part of him liked it. This part of Andrés that lacks empathy, that lacks humanity. It soared. There is something to be valued, to be treasured, about getting to see Martín in such a state. Knowing full well that Andrés caused it. _He_ rendered Martín this way. Of course he did. Indirectly, by his distance. All he did was spend the night a few doors down from him. Same floor, different room. And still, his absence was not only noticed, but felt acutely. What is there not to like? 

For Martín, Andrés was the cause and the consequence. Had been for quite some time. With a lift of his finger, he could wreak havoc and grant ecstasy. 

Andrés had made that choice a long time ago. Long before he'd even known he would marry him. He’d made a promise to himself, that he would never abuse Martín's devotion. At least, not too much. He could enjoy it. Not so secretly. Still, he would reward, where he used to chastise. 

And standing with him at the altar seems as good a way as any to prove it. To the world. To Martín. But his vow, his pledge to him, runs way deeper than the rites of men. 

_“That’s a lot of weddings, isn’t it?”,_ Martín had asked a few days ago, as they first stepped into the palace. _“Are you sure you’ll be able to stop at six?”_

They had both laughed, then. Martín was obviously joking, but to some extent, he wasn’t. Andrés may never know what had prompted such a grotesque question.

_“There is nothing I want more than to make you mine”,_ Andrés had answered. 

Because he was hopeless romantic. Because he meant it.

_“I've been yours for a very long time.”_

Martín wore the truth of these words every day. 

_“And I will never forgive myself for not accepting that gift sooner than I did.”_

Martín had huffed, as though Andrés was being silly. As though his guilt had no roots.

_“I mean it, Martín. I do want to marry you. But you know that it’s not enough. I want so much more than that.”_

That was the short version. The easiest way he could phrase it to Martín, in so many words. The truth is more subtle than that. More insidious. 

Marrying Martín is more than appealing, obviously. But confusing, too. 

The thing is, Andrés despises the notion that he has _yet_ to marry him. 

The fact that this event still stands in their future - albeit near future - is an unforgivable sin. A constant reminder of the faults of his past. He wants to have been married to him for years and years. He wants to call Martín his, and for Martín to claim him in return. He wants to carve out his name all over his body, profess his love, unequivocal. His dominion, absolute and undeniable.

Marrying him feels odd, because that’s simply what it is. He's _merely_ marrying Martín Berrote. This already feels like yesterday's news. A wedding is but a formality. A holy sacrament, and yet such a profane thing. Mundane, insufficient. 

Andrés still has time though. To do more than that. He will spend the rest of his days building churches and temples on behalf of their love, monuments to their commitment to each other.

But a wedding will have to do. For now. 

He will do everything he can to make it mean what it could never mean before. Not to him. Not with the others. This might be Andrés's sixth wedding, but this is going to be his first _marriage._ He'll redefine the word, turn it into something unprecedented. If he has to describe the bond he shares with Martín, every word has to carry a new meaning. Because none of the languages he learned have captured it yet. Not even close.

As Andrés is exiting the corridor, following his brother to the courtyard, he thinks about Martín’s face, as he last saw him just a few minutes ago. His smile. The fervor in his eyes. The next time he will see him will be their very last moment _not being married_. An auspicious epilogue.

Sergio huffs by his side, oblivious to the reflections coursing through his mind, however significant.

“You two are making it very hard for me to get you married _safely”,_ Sergio complains. “We picked early morning for a reason. This is Greece in summer. Please understand I’m only ensuring you don’t spend your honeymoon in a prison cell...”

As long as Martín is his cellmate, they could probably make it work. 

Andrés refrains from saying so, and dutifully follows his brother instead. He even lets him grumble about the location for as long as he wishes. That's how generous Andrés is. The truth is, he doesn't really mind the constant yapping, now that Sergio is no longer voicing grievances against Martín.

Which is quite a relief. Sergio has been known to be wrong, of course, many many times. And still, his opinion is something Andrés holds in high regard; whether or not he’d be willing to admit it is another debate. But the knowledge that he approves of Martín becoming his husband - even more puzzling, that he encourages it - is one more reason for Andrés's high spirits, on this bright and promising day.

They cross the paved courtyard where they will be holding the reception later, and Andrés takes it all in while his brother rambles on. The place is surrounded by Greek and Roman statues. Most of them dating back from the time of the Empire, others renovated during the Middle Ages. That’s why he chose the Palace of the Grand Master in the first place. This location has flair, it’s significant. Historical. Just like this day is bound to be.

As they reach the altar, set up under an archway that was once part of a medieval church, he starts hearing the chords. The musicians are set up slightly to the side, ready to play the melody to accompany this blissful day. 

Most of their guests are already sitting, but there is still a relaxed atmosphere in the air. Andrés doesn’t feel the need to go and greet anyone. 

Sergio spots her first, behind the grand piano.

“Is that- They said something about the musicians- Andrés, you didn't invite _her,_ did you? 

Andrés smiles. His brother can be thick, sometimes.

“What, you’re not suggesting she tracked us down and simply decided to crash my wedding, are you?”, he asks sarcastically. “Yes, of course I invited her. It was Martín's idea, actually.”

Before Sergio can blurt out another moronic question, the cheery redhead waves at them and leaves her seat, walking in their direction.

“Andrés!”, she calls as she jumps into his arms and kisses his cheek. 

“Good morning Tatiana. It’s a pleasure to see you today.”

He smiles and returns her hug. She's small in his arms. Smaller than he remembers. Inadequate. Andrés has gotten used to the embrace of someone his own size. He prefers it.

“Of course!”, she replies before taking off her sunglasses. “I _had_ to be here. I never thought I'd see the day. And it's nice to see you too, Sergio.”

Sergio holds out his hand and shakes hers, somewhat awkwardly. 

“Hello Tatiana”, he greets, deadpan and monotone.

Andrés ignores him. His brother has no manners.

“So, Tatiana”, he mockingly accuses. “It has been reported to me that you frightened my guests.”

She giggles, and Andrés vaguely remembers finding that attractive, once. 

“I never meant to”, she defends herself, still smiling. “The brunette in the black dress said something about a broken chair. Is Martín okay?”

“Ah, I see you’ve met Tokyo. For that, I am sorry.” 

“No need, she was very polite. She reminds me of you, actually.”

Andrés scoffs at that. Still, he’s surprised by how easy it is to talk to Tatiana, after all these years. In spite of everything, he recalls his time with her fondly. She was the easiest of his wives. The easiest to charm, to entertain. But also, the easiest to leave. Without the shadow of a doubt.

“Martín is fine now”, he continues. “Wedding jitters, nothing to worry about.”

“I’m sorry if I caused any of it. I just wanted to drop in and say hi before the ceremony”, she explains. “By the way Andrés, you should know, he looks really handsome today.”

Andrés smirks, swelling with pride. She always had taste, after all.

“He does, doesn't he?”

She gasps in mock indignation and slaps his arm playfully. 

“You've seen him? You're bad...”

“You know how he feels about superstition”, his brother intervenes, finally warming up to her.

Tatiana puts a hand on Sergio’s shoulder, ever physically demonstrative as she speaks.

“Well, we don't really have a choice, do we? Martín was there when I threw my bouquet, and it's _you_ who caught it! If we were superstitious, Sergio here should be the one getting married first.”

Sergio visibly tenses, and Andrés has to laugh.

“The day will come, hermanito.”

“Andrés, will you _shut up!”_

Tatiana doesn’t even bat an eye at Sergio’s outburst. She's been with Andrés, after all. He supposes it takes a lot to scare her away.

“Please excuse my brother, he’s nervous. He’s getting engaged very soon.”

As expected, Sergio is fuming. He's told Andrés many times not to mention it in public, fearful that Raquel will catch wind of his intention to propose. Fearful that she might say no, before he even gets to ask. Andrés knows for a fact that Sergio needn't worry.

“Did you know my future sister in law will be officiating our wedding?”, he adds for Tatiana. “She was already ordained, and she kindly offered. Which seems safer than hiring some con artist for such a private, familial moment.” 

Andrés looks at Sergio with a smile. Let him try and claim he’s being reckless and unreasonable, after that.

“I’ll tell you what Sergio, why don't you go and introduce Tatiana to our dear Raquel? In the meantime, I'm paying another visit to my promised.”

Sergio grabs his arm, surprisingly forceful.

“You're staying _right here_ Andrés, or so help me! The ceremony is about to start.”

“Don’t be a killjoy, Sergio. This is a day of euphoria! Of love and spontaneity.”

“This is a scheduled event, and I’d rather be done with the part that you insist has to occur beyond the walls. People could barge in any minute.”

Tatiana senses the tension and goes to make her exit.

“I'll get settled behind the piano, then.”

Sergio stares at her, dumbfounded.

“Tatiana, you don't need to-”

“It's quite alright Sergio”, she insists with a warm smile. “As I told Martín earlier, the band's pianist is sick today. So I offered to lend a hand for a bit. Well, in my case, two hands. Let’s call it my wedding gift to a good friend and terrible husband.”

Andrés winces, and bites back.

“Likewise.”

“Speak for yourself, I was a great wife!”

Andrés wistfully watches her walk away. She didn’t exactly aggravate him, but she didn’t charm him either, not anymore. Her voice is too high, her hair too long, her dress too red. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. And still. Still, Andrés finds her… defective? Disturbingly unlike Martín. Which is a crucial flaw. The comparison is unintentional, yet inevitable. But he cannot fault everyone in his life for not being Martín, can he? Well. Maybe he already does.

Sergio promptly directs him towards the large set of curtains installed in front of the aisle, on the opposite end to the altar. One of the few downsides of setting the altar under church ruins: no door. As always, his best man came through with a creative solution. Andrés lets the thick purple velvet slide between his fingers. It’s elegant, mysterious. There’s a thrill in remaining hidden, as though he’s both the guest of honor and the surprise. Shielded from everyone’s gaze and standing in anticipation. 

All Andrés is missing is the man to walk down the aisle by his side. Because of course, like everything else, this is something they should be doing together. Neither of them is a blushing bride requiring to be _given away._ And by whom? Sergio? _Please._

His brother thankfully leaves his side, and Andrés doesn’t have to wait much longer for some company. Three very well dressed people are walking towards him, one of them much more captivating than the other two.

“Do you see that guy, Denver? That’s gonna be my _husband!_ ”

Andrés hears the telltale laughter as they get closer to him.

“Come on, I’ve already seen him today”, Denver replies, confused. _“You’ve_ already seen him today.”

“Have I, though?”, Martín asks as he finally stops in front of Andrés. “I mean, wouldn’t you look at that!”

His confidence has been restored quite a bit, it seems. Andrés likes that color on him. Bright and bold. He takes his hand and Martín beams at him.

“You’re quite a sight yourself”, Andrés replies, a bit more composed in spite of his smile. “This light on you, Martín. It’s exquisite...”

Andrés studies him for a little while longer, before turning his attention to Denver and the woman next to him.

“Thank you very much for delivering him in one piece”, he quips. “I know it was challenging for you, and I appreciate it, truly…”

“Hey, I got him his milk-”, Denver starts, but Andrés cuts him off with a hand gesture.

“Ah, Denver’s friend, I see you’ve brought the flowers I requested.”

Before Andrés can grasp the purple blooms from her hands, the woman snaps at him.

“Okay bridezilla, you _know_ my name is Julia. I'll even accept Manila, for old time’s sake. But I swear to God, if you call me _“Denver's friend”_ one more time, I'm setting fire to every single flower in this garden. See if that matches your moodboard, then.”

She all but throws the flowers in his face before storming away, a wide eyed Denver in tow.

Ah, women and their sensitivities.

Andrés ignores her entirely, choosing to inspect the flowers instead. When he finds them both intact, he sets out to pin one of them on his fiancé’s lapel. It’s striking on him. The petals contrast nicely with the light shade of his suit and - as expected - bring out his eyes quite a bit. Bluer than they’ve ever been in the light of the morning sun. Overwhelming, as those eyes remain focused on him with such love, such adoration. As he looks at Martín, Andrés has to congratulate himself on his flower choice, like purple bells on his lapel.

He congratulates himself even more on his choice of spouse. But that’s a given.

“You know what?”, Martín eventually says, mischief in his voice. “Maybe Manila _should_ set fire to the flowers if she wants to. It would match your _aesthetic_ too, wouldn't it? We're in a Greek palace, let's just re-brand this as a wedding of the underworld.”

Andrés chuckles, fully aware that the _Underworld,_ as the Greeks envisioned it, looks nothing like the fiery pits of Catholic Hell. He’s about to point it out when his charming fiancé beats him to the punch.

“Okay, before you get all History Professor on me and start ranting about river Styx and how there’s no fire there, or whatever, please remember you own _a lot_ of books on shit I don’t care about. And I’ve been known to open one or two, when I’m bored. So I know full well that there are five rivers in the Underworld, and one of them is _literally_ the River of Fire. _Ergo_ , it’s still a solid analogy. I rest my case.”

There’s a twinkle in eye and he looks awfully pleased with himself. It’s infuriating. God, how Andrés loves him.

“This is why I'm marrying you”, he replies instead, because it’s true.

“For my analogies? _Really?”_

Andrés traces his index finger across Martín’s forehead.

“Your mind is unparalleled. I love that about you.”

Martín gasps. He looks genuinely offended. Unimpressed by Andrés’s sincere compliment.

“Um, excuse you! You're marrying me because you can't get enough of this hot piece of ass.”

Well, that too. Yes. Obviously, yes.

But that’s not the point Andrés is trying to make. He makes sure to look Martín in the eye and speaks slowly, intently.

“I'm marrying you because you are my soulmate, Martín. There will never be another one for me. I hope you know it by now.” 

Just as he hoped, Martín's breath hitches, his jaw tenses, and the muscles in his neck shift beautifully as he swallows hard. He's not fighting back tears - not yet - but he seems visibly affected by the simple statement. By the truth. So deliciously predictable. And emotional already, with just a few words from Andrés. Never will he get tired of watching Martín slowly come undone from his words, from his love. As though every declaration is the first. As though every gesture is overwhelming to him. There is a faint blush on his cheeks and Andrés just might trace his lips against it.

Martín doesn’t reply, snatches the second flower from his hands instead, and pins it on Andrés’s lapel as well.

“Why purple?”, he wonders, and Andrés is thrilled that he asked. “I mean, don’t colors have meaning or something?”

“The color hardly matters for this one. It’s a heliotrope. A flower that follows the course of the sun throughout the day. Philosophers have concluded it must represent devotion. An everlasting love.”

Martín treats him to a bashful smile, taking both of Andrés’s hands.

“Aren’t heliotropes highly toxic too?”

“Well, we don’t want to be boring, do we?”, Andrés replies. “Don’t worry, they’re only _poisonous._ As long as you can refrain from taking a bite, you should be alright.”

“You’re holding me to such high standards. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself...”

Martín is being silly and Andrés has a sudden urge to take him away to some dark corner of the castle and have his wicked way with him. Doing so _before_ the wedding is especially appealing. One last desecration before he makes an honest man out of Martín. Corruption followed by salvation.

Before he can carry out his design, Andrés starts hearing Nairobi’s booming voice from the other side of the curtain. Martín’s idea, naturally.

_“Señoras y señores,_ please rise. The main course is being brought to the table.”

“Did you write this?”, Andrés whispers, trying to hide his amusement.

“I gave her a few pointers.”

Nairobi resumes her crowd work.

“I've been instructed to warn you: our grooms are looking _extremely fine_ today. Of course I was gonna say that anyway. But I actually saw them both this morning, and let me tell you… _Santa María Madre de Dios,_ are we in for a treat. But most importantly, they’re mad about each other, and I expect you all to be fucking _devastated_ by the sheer strength of their love.”

Andrés raises an eyebrow and Martín just grins.

“So I want everyone here hyped up and horny for love! I want _cheers!_ I want _tears!_ Openly sobbing is good! Weeping is better! If I see a dry eye in the house, you _will_ be thrown out. See the tough-looking Serbian in the corner. He's actually a softie, but he _is_ very strong. If you do not show the appropriate level of genuine emotion on this fine day, his strong arms will gently carry you out of the estate. Is that clear?”

Cheers and claps can be heard already. Andrés is baffled that this actually worked.

“Without further ado, let me introduce today’s main event: this is Palermo's first and only wedding, this is Berlín last wedding!”

Martín puts a nervous hand in his, and of course Andrés leans in to kiss him. His lips are soft and pliant, but his hand holds Andrés’s in a tight grip. He kisses him until all tension starts leaving his body. When he pulls away, Martín’s face is flushed, and the curtains in front of them are being opened. 

“I love you Martín. Let’s make you my husband, shall we?”

They begin their walk down the aisle together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sergio really wanted to walk Andrés down the aisle and give him away, though.


	4. The easiest part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denver sighs as Helsinki and Bogotá open the curtains, only to reveal Berlín and Palermo kissing behind it. Of course they are. Why wouldn’t they be? They were left unsupervised for all of two minutes, it was _bound_ to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like a visual aid, here’s a friendly reminder that [this is what the church ruins look like](https://www.greece-is.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/RHODES_PALACE_OF_THE_GRANDE_MASTERS_06.jpg). The ceremony takes place there.

Denver sighs as Helsinki and Bogotá open the curtains, only to reveal Berlín and Palermo kissing behind it. Of course they are. Why wouldn’t they be? They were left unsupervised for all of two minutes, it was _bound_ to happen. It’s not even gross, not anymore. He’s seen so much more than that, he’s used to it by now. Denver is just _so tired._

He takes great pride in his role as Palermo’s dutiful best man. But more often than not, he does feel like an underpaid camp counselor at a summer retreat full of hormonal teens, or something like that. The silver lining - if he can call it that - is that Denver is now fully prepared for whatever his son will throw at him, in fifteen years or so. Teenage Cincinnati will be a breeze compared to this. Denver has seen it all already. The mood swings, the rude comments and ungrateful behaviors, the tears and the screams. The constant PDA, too, when these two can’t even be bothered to actually sneak off and be horny _discreetly_. But Denver has endured. Let Cinci come at him with everything he’s got. What’s he even gonna do? Whine all day and claim his parents suck? Roll his eyes at him and ignore everything he says? _Please_. Denver’s fucking ready. He’s got the training, the patience, the work experience. And he owes it all to Palermo. 

Another unexpected upside to the wedding preparations is that, after all these years, Denver finally stopped being intimidated by Berlín. The more time he spent with the grooms, the more he realized they were simply two dorks in love. Something he could definitely relate to. They’re the fancy kind, smart and pretentious about it. And very annoying whenever they ramble on about what they’re passionate about. Art, science, heists. Each other. But basically, they’re just a couple of love-struck fools. It’s nice, in a way, seeing them like this. It almost humanizes them. 

Denver is actually a little sad that his best man duties are coming to an end today. But he’s happy about the wedding, of course. Let’s get some romance in this place!

Against all odds, the impromptu make-out session stops almost as soon as the curtains open. The music picks up, a classical piece that sounds oddly familiar. Denver can’t quite place it. Berlín called it _Pachelbel's Canon_ , but that means nothing to him. 

Regardless, the music is beautiful, and as they hear it, Palermo and Berlín begin their walk down the aisle, side by side. 

They both have the widest smiles as they whisper to each other, and Denver is glad they’re not wearing microphones - something Nairobi suggested for the vows. There aren’t that many guests anyway, and both Palermo and Berlín can be quite loud when they want to. He’s sure they’ll hear the vows just fine.

No one but Lisbon waits for them at the altar, which to Denver makes it look like either Berlín or Palermo is actually marrying _her_. But he knows better than to point it out to them. Most of his input has been ignored anyway. What’s even the point of picking him as Palermo’s best man if they’re gonna turn down all his best ideas?

Julia, who’s standing right next to him, leans in to whisper in his ear.

“I would have paid good money to see the Professor drag Berlín down the altar and _give him away_ to Palermo.”

Denver refrains from laughing. He knows that’s what the Professor had in mind as well. Or rather, _Sergio_ , as he’s been trying to call him recently. He and Denver had a lot of one-on-one meetings in the past few months, as co-best-men. Almost always _“emergency coordination”_ this, _“crisis control”_ that. He sighs again.

“We’re not doing the giving away part, we’re not doing the ring bearer…”, he laments in a low voice. “What are we _actually_ doing?”

“I don't see either of them with a bouquet”, Mónica points out. “So I don’t think they’ll be throwing one of those.”

Tokyo grabs his shoulder from behind and he turns to face her.

“Please Denver, _please_ tell me they’re doing the garter”, she asks.

“Don’t even joke about that”, he sighs. “The Professor and I had to argue with them for _hours_ so they didn’t do it. Palermo wanted to do a strip tease for the garter thing.”

“Really?”, Julia chimes in. “I find it extremely offensive that you talked him out of it. I’m disappointed in you, Dani.”

“I second that”, Tokyo agrees. “There better be some good entertainment, if we’re gonna have to hear about how they love each other or whatever… They _know_. We _all_ know.”

No one feels like arguing with that and they let her sulk. 

Mónica smiles at Denver and he takes her hand. Unlike Tokyo, she loves weddings, and the last one they attended was their own. It makes him feel all romantic just to think about it. 

The grooms have now reached the altar, so while the other guests sit back down on their chairs, Denver has to go and stand next to Palermo discreetly. He can see Sergio do the same on the other side of the aisle, silently finding his spot behind Berlín. This is pointless. He has to be close to Palermo, but not too close. It’s important that the best men are seen beside the grooms, but they shouldn’t attract any attention. _“You’re like those statues outside”,_ Palermo explained to him yesterday. _“You’re just here to stand there and look pretty. But if we can hear you, something’s really fucking wrong.”_

The wedding march stops, and the musicians start playing a softer, more discreet melody.

“Good morning everyone”, Lisbon starts. “Thank you all for coming.”

She’s wearing a white and gold toga and her hair is up, done in an elaborate way that doesn't require a pencil for once. Denver wasn’t involved in that, it was Sergio’s duty to carry out his brother’s vision. It actually looks really nice on her.

“We are gathered here today, before gods and men, to witness and celebrate the union of Berlín and Palermo. Of Andrés and Martín. Today they join their lives and their souls in marriage.”

He hears a few scoffs. Yeah, Raquel definitely didn’t write that. _“They join their lives and souls”?_ This has Berlín’s fingerprints all over. And Denver can already hear Nairobi’s voice in his head. _“Before gods and men and_ women _, Berlín, you chauvinist asshole.”_ Meh, she’ll probably bend his ear about it later today.

After a brief pause, Lisbon carries on:

“As Martín and Andrés prepared for this ceremony, they reflected on what it is that they love about each other. And this was probably the easiest part of planning this wedding. Although it took quite some time to narrow it down, didn’t it? For both grooms. And I am not even talking about the parts I had to censor. As I recently found out, Martín has a lot of things to say about Andrés, many of which I do not care to know.”

They’re both smiling at each other, not even looking at her. Palermo looks extremely proud of himself, and Denver will definitely be asking Lisbon for that uncensored draft of the vows. He’s sure Julia and Nairobi would _love_ to read that.

“At this point, it is customary for the wedding officiant to do a reading of some sort, but I’ve been told Bible verses are, and I quote, uninspired and tacky.”

Berlín laughs in surprise, which means the comment definitely didn’t come from him.

“I see your point”, he says to Palermo. “According to the Catholic church, I’m still married to my first wife, anyway.”

“We're no hypocrites, are we?”, he replies with a shit eating grin. “We've lived in sin before and it's certainly not ending today.”

At those words, Berlín gives him a _look_ that Denver would rather not interpret. He got the gist of it anyway. We get it, they’re horny for each other. Trust them to start eye-fucking _at the altar_. Good lord!

Raquel speaks again, a polite smile still on her lips. Denver admires her composure.

“So... In lieu of a reading, I will now let both grooms express their love and their commitment to each other. Martín Berrote, please talk to us about Andrés de Fonollosa.”

Palermo smiles wide, pulling a face that clearly says _I was born for this_.

“Alright everyone, hold on to your seats! Because I have a lot to say about this man. About this brilliant, beautiful man.”

Palermo then proceeds to start waxing poetic about Berlín. Which Berlín loves, of course he does. He basks in the joy of being described in such flattering - incorrect - terms.

It goes on forever. Palermo didn’t lie when he said he had _a lot_ to say about him. About his mind and his face and his body. About his presence and his sense for art. About everything Martín feels for him. It’s actually quite touching, for a while. Then he mentions the plan, the heist, _their gold_. As though he were talking about their child. Judging by Berlín’s reaction, he might as well be. Both of their faces are transparent with deep emotion.

Denver tunes it out after a bit. It’s okay, their vows are not for the guests, they’re for each other. And both grooms are, very clearly, focused on each other and no one else.

Palermo is getting way too technical about the heist and what they accomplished together. He mentions details of the plan that Denver wasn’t even aware of, up until that point. And he _was_ in the Bank with them. But Martín’s engineering lecture really seems to hit the mark for Andrés, if his damp eyes - and most importantly, his silence - are any indication.

Then, things start getting weird. Denver finds himself paying attention again, but it’s too late. Palermo’s vows have already taken a turn for the worst.

“-and when you stabbed that guy with a fork because he made fun of us, I just knew that I would never be shown a love that strong ever again. Maybe this was your first actual love confession, even before you told me. I love that about you Andrés, you've always been such a romantic! Through big and small gestures. Like breaking my cousin’s jaw so he couldn’t say another slur. Or that time you waterboarded my ex who stole from me. And of course, I will never forget the day you cut off- What?”

There’s a hand on Palermo’s shoulder, and the groom turns to his best man with a confused expression on his face. 

Denver could slap himself for how long it took him to intervene, but he wasn't expecting _that_. Sergio meets his eyes, stunned and speechless as well. But it's the other groom who catches Denver’s attention. Looking genuinely offended.

“Can’t you see we are in the middle of a life-altering moment?”, Berlín mutters in his icy tone. _“Why on earth_ would you interrupt him?”

Denver is taken aback and doesn’t know how this isn’t obvious to him. Thankfully, Sergio seems to send some sort of telepathic message to Raquel because she takes over.

“Martín, this is all quite- um, very intense... But we are allotted a limited time before it becomes extremely unsafe for us to be standing here. So I would suggest for Andrés to start on his vows.”

The prospect of Berlín talking seems to appease Palermo. And Berlín as well, that one loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

He brings his attention back on Palermo and takes both of his hands.

“I suppose I cannot talk about Martín without first enlightening our audience about what the philosophers theorized, regarding what we call _soulmates…_ ”

Denver has an incredibly high level of self-restraint for not groaning audibly. And he thought Palermo’s vows were pompous and unintelligible? Well this isn't better.

Berlín seems to swell as words are flying out of his mouth. He quotes philosophers and writers and poets. It’s pretentious as fuck, but Denver kind of gets it when Palermo starts grinning like a fool. Berlín is fully _romancing him_. He references art, mentions sculptures and paintings Denver has never seen. Apparently, not even _Claude Monet_ could capture the exact shade of Palermo's eyes. 

A few of the guests gasp at that comment, Denver among them. He doesn’t know many painters, but he does know this one. Palermo mentioned him once. Interesting.

Both of the grooms are looking entirely love-struck, it’s almost nauseating. Almost.

Then Berlín says something that would probably get him into a fight with every woman in attendance, if he wasn’t literally in the process of getting married right now. Allegedly, the reason his past weddings failed is because of how truly lacking and insufficient women are. And it’s only now that he's finally found his equal, another man, that he can be fulfilled and satisfied, that he can be completely understood. 

Raquel rolls her eyes but doesn't comment. He keeps rambling on, and after art and poetry, he does seem to have reached the finish line.

“-so Martín, you should never doubt that I am entirely and completely devoted to you. I love you with every fiber of my being. I want you, and only you, with every last _mitochondria_.”

For some reason, Palermo bursts out laughing at those words, his eyes shining with unshed tears. Denver turns back towards Mónica who simply shrugs, confirming that he isn't being dense. This is actually nonsense. 

But this nonsense concludes Berlín’s vows, and finally - finally - the grooms turn towards Raquel. All that’s left for her to do is ask them both the final question, the _sacerdote_.

Sergio shuffles and hands over the rings before Raquel speaks, solemn, but still smiling.

“Andrés de Fonollosa, do you take Martín Berrote to be your lawfully wedded husband”, she starts, and that’s probably the only thing those two will ever do _lawfully_ , “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, and do you promise to love and cherish him for the rest of your days?”

Andrés holds out his hand for Martín to slip the ring on his finger. He waits until he has, so Martín is looking up at him when he says it.

“Sí, quiero.”

Denver doesn’t even need to look at Palermo’s face to know that he’s crying. He’s doing a decent job at keeping the sobs mostly silent, but his whole body is shaking and Berlín’s hand is on his face, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“Martín Berrote, do you take Andrés-”

“Sí! Quiero!”

There are a few laughs at the outburst, and Denver would have expected Berlín to be furious. But he just cups Palermo’s face, smiling. This isn't patience on his part. This is smug satisfaction.

“Martín”, Raquel warns, raising one elegant eyebrow. “You know I have to start over, now.”

“You’re being slow!”, he complains, and it’s more a whine than anything. “Guess what, my answer isn’t gonna change in the twelve hours it will take you to ask the question.”

“Be kind to your future sister in law, cariño”, Berlín chimes in, looking extremely pleased with the state he’s in. “You can argue with her _after_ I’m able to call you my husband.”

Palermo looks at him and only him. Just because Berlín isn’t openly sobbing, doesn’t mean he looks _composed_. Far from it. His eyes are damp and red, and the curve of his smile doesn't hide the fact that his lips are trembling. Denver hears the click of a camera - Río - and thank god for that. This is a sight he’ll want to remember.

Raquel waits for a moment and then repeats her full question. While she speaks, Berlín brings Palermo’s hand to his lips and kisses it. It’s probably the only thing stopping Martín from cutting her off again.

“-and do you promise to love and cherish him for the rest of your days?”

There’s a strangled sound, followed with a heavy pause.

And then nothing.

For the longest time, it seems like Palermo is not going to answer at all. He's just breathing very loudly. Denver meets Sergio's eyes and it all makes sense. 

So _that_ explains the interruption. Palermo wasn't being rude. He was in a hurry to speak because he _knew_ he wouldn’t keep it together for much longer. That’s what does it, for Denver. Just like that, he feels himself getting choked up as well.

“Sí”, Palermo eventually lets out. “Sí, quiero.” 

Raquel waits until Andrés has also slipped the ring on Martín’s trembling finger. Then she smiles and makes the announcement:

“Andrés de Fonollosa and Martín Berrote, I now pronounce you _marido y esposo_...” 

As those words are spoken, a wide smile conquers Andrés’s face, making him look younger, brighter, _happier_ than he’s ever seemed before, and he pulls Martín close in what appears to be a crushing hug. Palermo buries his tear-streaked face into his neck, while Nairobi’s booming voice surrounds them, her words bouncing off the stone archway.

“ _Damas y caballeros_ ”, she proclaims, “it is now my privilege to introduce to you, for the very first time, _los Señores Berrote y de Fonollosa_ , partners in crime, _husband and husband!”_

“You may now kiss- well, I don’t suppose I needed to say it, did I?”

They jump on each other halfway through her sentence. Or to be exact, Palermo leans his entire body weight on Berlín, wrapping his arms around his neck. Berlín grabs his waist to steady them both as they start kissing. They came very close to toppling over and collapsing on poor Sergio right behind them. It’s pretty chaste, all things considered. They just lock lips for a few seconds, before pulling away and exchanging smiles, under the deafening sounds of claps and cheers from the guests. 

Denver has to admit he’s getting a bit emotional. Only Mónica saw him wipe his eyes, so it’s alright. She already knows he can be a sensitive guy, and she likes that side of him. But if anyone else asks, the sun was in his eye, okay?

It's becoming quite clear now that, even though the vows might have been a bit over-the-top, they were also very touching and sincere. He spots several teary eyes in the audience. Including Julia, who’s been ranting all morning about how much of a dickhead Berlín is. But the worst case is perhaps that of his fellow best man. Sergio has unshed tears in his eyes as he hugs his brother tightly. He then grabs a shaken Palermo and hugs him as well. 

Denver meets Martín’s eyes above Sergio’s shoulder, and sees him mouth the words _“Who’s that guy?”_ while pointing at Sergio’s back. Denver laughs then, and he comes to Palermo’s rescue, getting a crushing hug for his efforts. Well, he gets it. He’s been a great fucking best man.

“He just told me _“Welcome to the family”_ , can you believe it?”, Martín laughs, disbelief clear on his face. “He fucking called me _“hermanito”,_ Denver!”

He almost sounds offended.

“Well, congratulations I guess. So... do I call you Martín de Fonollosa, now?”

“Don’t let him hear you! He’ll have that monogrammed on towels or some shit. You keep calling me Palermo. We’re not on a first name basis yet, my friend.” 

Before Denver can point out how little that makes sense, Martín - fine, _Palermo_ \- returns to Berlín’s side so they can start their walk back down the aisle. As husbands. 

Denver looks over at Sergio again and sees him nod, a wide smile on his face. That’s the signal he was expecting. Oh, it's happening!

Before the massacre begins, Denver rushes to kiss Mónica. Then, he grabs Cincinnati from her lap, sitting him on his shoulders so his boy can enjoy himself too. He hands him a little bag of confetti and with a laugh, starts making it rain on the newlyweds. Everybody knew to be looking at Denver for that, and they all follow his lead, confetti, rice, lace, _everything_. Río and Paula are already standing on their chairs for a better vantage point, and Helsinki is holding an entire bucket of confetti, somehow. 

There is a faint “I expressly said _no rice…”_ from a distraught Berlín, but Palermo grabs his hands and twirls in his arms, laughing and dancing under the confetti shower. Andrés looks at him like he hung the moon, and that’s the end of his protestations. For now.

Denver notices rice of all colors, and suspects Tokyo and Julia have marked their stashes in order to have a friendly competition - _meaning,_ in order to try and get as much rice as possible in Berlín’s hair, inside his suit, on his face - and be able to identify a clear winner, through the brilliance of color-coding. Denver only wishes he'd thought of that. Apparently, Marsella is in on it too. He’s the only one with blue rice. All three of them have really good aim.

“Lisbon! Shield our bodies with your toga! That’s an order!”, Berlín yells as another wave hits them. 

“I’m _wearing_ it, Andrés.”

“Your point?”

“My point is I’m not undressing in a church!”

“Kinky!”, Palermo shouts, and as he does, he chokes on a mouthful of rice. Berlín doesn't even try to stifle his laughter. And neither does Denver.

They pick up the pace of their walk back down the aisle, hand in hand, still making eyes at each other despite their guests’ unwavering assaults. Thankfully for the newlyweds, the aisle isn’t that long, and soon enough they’re out of the waters, and on their merry way towards the palace. They have a wedding photoshoot before the reception. They are positively covered in rice and confetti though, so they will definitely need a bit of cleanup before that.

The area under the church ruins quickly empties out, and before long, it’s just Sergio and him standing there by the altar, with Cincinnati still perched on Denver's shoulders. They’re surrounded by flowers and empty chairs. And fucking rice and confetti everywhere. 

Denver grabs his son and sets him down on the ground.

“You see Cinci, what just happened here is, your dad made a really big mistake. Because now, guess who’s left to clean up all this?”

Sergio shakes his head, beaming still, and gets to work.

“Come on, I’ll help you with the chairs. We’ll recruit the others later for… everything else.”

“You’ve always been good at making everyone else do the work for you, right _Professor?”_

Denver is still smiling though, especially when Cincinnati gets his little arms on a chair and moves it about ten centimetres.

“Look! You already recruited someone.”

Sergio laughs and they keep moving chairs in a cheery atmosphere. God, they really are amazing at being best men, aren't they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EASTER EGG: can anyone tell me why [Pachelbel's Canon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ptk_1Dc2iPY&t=1m57s) sounds “oddly familiar” to Denver, but he can’t quite place it? There’s no prize for guessing, I just like planting the seeds of mystery. For no reason.  
> Love you all! Please tell me what you think.


	5. Picture perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tokyo wonders when she’ll be called for the group pictures. It’s already been a good twenty minutes of just the grooms posing together. Nairobi is the third one to try her hand at wedding photography. She’s a saint, really. Berlín is apparently going for a very specific aesthetic, and before her, both Río and Manila were bullied into quitting the thankless job of _capturing the essence of love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please find your assigned spot for this wedding photo-shoot [in the courtyard](https://www.greece-is.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/RHODES_PALACE_OF_THE_GRANDE_MASTERS_02.jpg), and do not forget to reapply sunscreen, it’s very sunny out there.

Tokyo smiles when she spots the pianist getting settled in the courtyard - God, did they move the grand piano already or is it _another one?_ It doesn’t matter, that’s not what she’s here for.

She’s been wanting to talk to her all morning. 

The stunning redhead looks up and returns her smile, so that’s her cue to make her move. 

“Hola, guapa...”

“Hello again”, the musician replies. “I didn’t get to introduce myself earlier, with the whole groom panic thing. I’m Tatiana.”

She holds out her hand and Tokyo shakes it. It’s a bit formal, she’d have gone for a hug.

“You’re Tokyo, right?”

“Only these guys call me that. I’m Silene”, she answers, and it does feel odd, after so many years of being _just Tokyo_ to everyone around her. “But yes, you can call me Tokyo. Or whatever you like.”

Tatiana smiles in a genuine way that reaches her eyes, and it’s charming. 

“It was such a beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it?”, she says, and Tokyo can’t help but laugh. _Yeah, right_. “I’m so happy for these two”, Tatiana adds.

Wait a minute.

“So you’re a guest? I thought you were with the musicians.”

“I’m many things today…”

Her tone is mysterious, her smile enigmatic. Tokyo likes it. It’s drawing her in, actually. Tatiana doesn’t elaborate, and instead starts sorting through a stack of music sheets. She's effortlessly elegant. Graceful, even. And still somehow, a comforting presence.

Intrigued, Tokyo pushes further. 

“If you’re a guest, you’re probably staying here tonight, right?” Tatiana nods and she continues: “Well, then you should know my room is in the east wing. Right next to the Aphrodite statue”, she adds with a wink. 

She picked that room on purpose.

“There’s one of Apollo in front of my room”, the pianist replies in a cheery tone. “I don’t think we’ll be very far from each other.”

Tokyo is trying to read her. This could very well be an innocent comment. An upbeat attitude in polite conversation. Or this could be Tatiana flirting back. And she isn’t sure which one it is. It’s been a while since Tokyo last hit on anyone, she’s definitely out of practice. Maybe she should just be more direct.

“So you’re single?”, she asks, bluntly.

“I am”, Tatiana answers, as though she’s delighted about it. “Happily divorced, if that’s a thing. And I didn’t bring a plus one.”

Oh, it’s on.

“That’s interesting, I don’t have a plus one either…”

Before things can get interesting, a man holding a violin calls for Tatiana’s attention. She has to excuse herself to go and discuss something with her fellow musicians. To be continued, then. Tokyo is surprised to see Helsinki among them, holding an intricate accordion. She didn’t know he would be playing today. 

She puts a pin in it and strolls across the courtyard to join the rest of the guests. Most of them are standing awkwardly, waiting while the newlyweds are being photographed. Tokyo spots Denver and the Professor among them, so they must have given up on tidying up, by the altar. Not her problem. 

Paula and Cincinnati aren’t with the group. They're playing with Marsella's over-energized puppy, and running around in the galeries that surround the courtyard. Marsella keeps a close eye on Lucky and the kids; he's standing to the side and making conversation with Raquel’s mother. Tokyo has absolutely no idea what they could be discussing together.

She sees Sergio lean over and speak to Raquel.

“This photo-shoot is taking a while. Maybe I should go talk to Andrés.”

“No, don't turn around”, she replies in a hurry, as though there’s an emergency. “They're kissing again, you don’t want to see that.”

Sergio smiles at her, his savior.

“Where would I be without you, Raquel?”

“Rotting in a cell, somewhere.”

“Um. Probably.”

He kisses her cheek and reaches for her hand, fidgeting with her fingers. She smiles like she finds it charming. He's lucky to have her.

“Alright, I can’t believe you two are making me say this, but that’s enough making out for now”, Nairobi shouts from her spot behind the tripod. “We have _all the pictures_ of you kissing, every shot, every angle. Let’s try something else, okay?”

Berlín only seems to hold Palermo closer at those words, a possessive hand roaming even lower on his back. And Tokyo doesn’t miss how Nairobi keeps snapping pictures, even as she complains. Eventually, Palermo manages to disentangle himself from his clingy husband - or is it the other way around? - allowing her to suggest different poses. They’re standing under a flower arch, with statues behind them, and the setting is actually quite pretty. Over the top, though.

Tokyo wonders when she’ll be called for the group pictures. It’s already been a good twenty minutes of just the grooms posing together. Nairobi is the third one to try her hand at wedding photography. She’s a saint, really. Berlín is apparently going for a very specific aesthetic, and before her, both Río and Manila were bullied into quitting the thankless job of _capturing the essence of love_. As per requested by the newlyweds. Although Río is still standing by Nairobi’s side, lending his aid with the high tech photography equipment, and for that Tokyo is thankful. She’d rather keep her interactions with him to a minimum, today. 

“Ugh, I’m too sober for this!”, she laments, tired of just standing there with the group, not eating, not doing anything.

Mónica smiles at her and starts rummaging through her humongous mama-handbag, revealing the key to her salvation.

“Look what I grabbed from Palermo’s dressing room”, she announces, brandishing a bottle of expensive-looking gin. “He said he didn’t want it.” 

Bogotá eclipses himself for a second and returns from the table with a tray of empty glasses. 

“You two are godsent!”, Manila praises.

Denver makes a face, and Tokyo knows he put a lot of thought into picking that bottle for Palermo. She downs the first shot she’s handed and makes a point of telling him how good it is, and how happy she is right now, thanks to him. That does seem to cheer him up a bit.

Tokyo brings her eyes back on the ongoing photo-shoot, and she has to admit Nairobi is _good_. Not only because she doesn’t take any of Berlín’s bullshit, but she knows what she’s doing. She’s got ideas too. Better than that, a _vision_. For instance, she somehow convinced Palermo to pose with his hand over Berlín’s mouth, because _“it’s a metaphor for marriage, you now speak with one voice.”_

The grooms eventually catch on when they spot their guests cracking up. 

“A metaphor, was it?”, Berlín asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Alright, your turn then!”, Nairobi concedes. “Put your hand on Palermo’s mouth like you’re not allowing him to say another word, not ever.”

They comply without a word of protestation, so Tokyo suspects there’s a weird kinky reason behind it. 

Still, Nairobi was inspired. Even the Professor is stifling a laugh, no doubt delighted at the notion of an eternally silent Palermo. Raquel weakly scolds him, but Tokyo bets she enjoys the sight as well.

Nairobi cheers.

“Oh! This one turned out great, I'm framing it!”

“We're not displaying that in our home, Nairobi.”

“Wasn’t gonna give it to you. It's for me.”

Yep, Tokyo's definitely asking Nairobi for that picture. That one, and of course the picture of _“silent Berlín”,_ a brilliant concept as well. 

Stockholm refills everyone’s glasses and they down another round of drinks.

“Alright you drunkards, I'm taking suggestions now”, Nairobi calls, and she’s just jealous because she can’t drink with them yet. “What do I make them do? A few tasteful nudes, maybe?”

“We're not posing for erotica for _photographs…_ ”, Berlín announces with disdain. “Only a classical painter could capture the fervor of our embrace.”

“ _Has_ _captured_ , you mean”, Palermo corrects, and no one needs to know that. 

The grooms look at each other with heated gazes and Nairobi keeps snapping pictures of the intimate exchange.

“Oh, this is good. Candid shots! How did I not think of that? Just keep talking between yourselves! Ignore me entirely, I am capturing authenticity.”

“She's capturing them talking dirty to each other, is what she is”, Manila points out, and Sergio winces. 

Most guests are looking at the grooms whispering sweet nothings to each other, like you would be staring at a car crash, appalled, but unable to look away.

“I can't hear what they're saying, but just look at Palermo's face”, Denver adds. “He's not thinking about the pictures, I can tell you that.”

“I can't look at his face”, Bogotá replies, “I'm still stuck on where his hands were going.”

“This wedding album is going to be a nightmare, isn't it?”, Raquel laments.

Tokyo laughs. Oh, yes it definitely will.

And still, as her eyes land on the grooms once more, she can’t help but notice what a striking pair they make. Palermo’s attention is entirely focused on Berlín, and it’s like nothing else around them exists. And even though Berlín occasionally looks away, as he talks to Río and Nairobi, his hands are always somewhere on Palermo, a constant reminder, a reassurance, maybe.

Tokyo admires their boldness, their commitment. Not only today or the fact that they’re getting married. But how they act around each other in general. How loud and boisterous they can be, not one bit shy about the depth of their love. They’re showing it off, really. Whether it’s when they’re shouting it from the rooftops, or simply exchanging discreet glances and touches like they are right now, they’re always revealing it to the world. Without an ounce of hesitation. Tokyo has never been able to be that forward, that reckless with her own feelings. She has to admit she envies them. Their lack of restraint. Their silly, blissful smiles. 

No, actually, she doesn’t have to admit _anything_. And definitely not that she’s seething with envy while looking at those fuckers on their wedding day. She averts her eyes before someone catches her staring.

Tokyo looks around for a bit, trying to distract herself. 

She’s once again drawn to Tatiana. She would very much like to catch her eye, right now, but she’s too far away. Her back is turned to her as she’s chatting with Helsinki and the musicians. 

Tokyo notices, not for the first time, how big this place is. _Monumental,_ as Berlín put it. They look small, all bundled up in the middle of the courtyard. Which brings a question to mind.

“Hey, do you guys know if anyone else is coming? I mean, are we really their _only_ friends?”

The Professor starts stammering.

“Well, it’s much safer to meet up as a small group. So this is definitely better.”

“It’s just- I remember _a lot_ of boasting from Berlín”, she happily points out. “About his influential contacts all over the world. Friends on the French Riviera or something. Where are they now?” 

“I didn’t need to veto the guest list”, Sergio explains. “Ours were the only names. Except for Tatiana of course, I did not know she would be here.”

“The redhead?”, Tokyo asks, her interest piqued. “Is she a friend of theirs or something?”

The Professor and Bogotá share a look, grinning at each other.

“What’s so funny?”

“Tatiana was my brother’s fifth wife.”

 _What_.

Tokyo must have misheard. The woman she talked to was pretty and kind and _normal_. 

Denver and Manila also look stunned, so she’s not alone in her disbelief.

“Wait-”, Denver starts, agitating his hands as he speaks. _“She_ was Berlín's wife? Her? The one behind the piano?”

Sergio and Bogotá just nod.

“She was _married_ to him?”

“For a few months, yes.”

Tokyo has to check. 

“And she married him… out of her own free will?”, she chimes in, and Sergio makes a face. “Because Palermo, I get it. That’s all he deserves, really…”

Denver frowns at her.

“Hey, shut up! Palermo’s a catch!”, he yells, the ever dutiful best man.

“If he’s such a dreamboat, why don’t you marry him yourself?”, Tokyo bites back.

“You know what, I _would”,_ Denver insists, stubbornly. “And he _is_ a dreamboat. Look at his smile.”

Everyone turns around to steal a glance at the happy couple. Fuck. Palermo’s actually smiling right now, and it _is_ a good look. Well, she’s not gonna give Denver the satisfaction.

“Congratulations on the engagement”, Bogotá jokes. 

“Hey! I can’t actually marry him because I love _my wife”_ , Denver reminds him, pointing to a grinning Mónica. “But let’s say she leaves me and Berlín has an _accident_. Then sure, Palermo and I would move in together. For support. We would both cry for a few years, at least. But then I’d totally marry him. We’d be mourning bros together. That’s how invested of a best man I am.”

He puffs out his chest and smiles proudly.

“Oh, cariño, that’s not a thing”, Manila says with a hand on his arm. “But it’s sweet that you thought it was.”

“Anyway, we were talking about Tatiana”, Tokyo reminds them. “And what the fuck was she ever doing with _Berlín?”_

She needs data. Let’s not get sidetracked here.

“She _is_ very pretty”, Lisbon agrees.

“Exactly, thank you!”, Tokyo replies, vindicated. “Not saying that _Palermo_ is any less of a catch”, she adds, rolling her eyes at Denver. “But I mean, look at her! She’s- um...”

“She’s a Ferrari!”

Manila slaps Denver square over the back of the head. So fast. Her hand just flew. Tokyo is extremely impressed.

“Really Daniel? Is that how you were taught to talk about women?”

The Professor stares at Denver.

“What do you mean by Ferrari?”, he asks, clearly confused. “Are you saying that because she’s wearing red?”

Stockholm rolls her eyes and silently shakes her head in his direction, signaling that it’s better to simply _not engage._ Tired discourse. Do not interact. Sergio drops the subject.

“Well, she seems alright”, Tokyo observes, thinking out loud more than anything. “Like, how was she even with him?”

“She stole a lot of shit too”, Bogotá explains, and isn’t that music to her ears. “So I’m assuming that’s how they met. They made a beautiful couple actually. Picture perfect.”

“Though obviously, not _that_ perfect, or we wouldn't be here today”, Stockholm comments.

Tokyo is very, very intrigued. She already was, even before she came across this very nice tidbit of information. But now, knowing _that_. The wise choice would be to back out immediately. Burned land. Toxic territory. But Tokyo feels, more than ever, the thrill of the chase. And not even because Berlín would probably hate it _so much_. Well, yes, but not only because of that. The prospect of aggravating him - of taking what once was _his_ \- is just the icing on the cake really. And doing it _on his wedding day,_ the cherry on top. 

But she would go for it even without that extra dose of motivation. Tatiana is sweet and beautiful and a fucking thief. The whole package. Plus, Tokyo hasn’t been with a woman in a while. A wedding hookup is just what she needs to get back on the horse. And if that hookup happens to be the ex-wife of the groom, well, so be it. Today just got really fucking exciting.

She needs a few more answers. But before she can grill anyone about the enticing mystery that is Tatiana, it seems Sergio and Denver are called to take pictures with the grooms. Oh, right, they’re the best men. Denver is especially happy about it, he clings to Palermo needily and kisses his cheek for the camera. Berlín gives him the side eye. 

Tokyo can’t question Bogotá either, since the traitor also leaves their group to go stand next to Nairobi. He grabs her waist and gives her a kiss before helping her adjust the camera on the tripod. They’re so adorable together, Tokyo wants to barf.

She must have been looking in their direction for a bit too long, because she ends up meeting Río’s eyes. He looks away awkwardly.

Ugh. She hates weddings. They make her horny. Well, hornier than usual. Sad and bitter, too. Never a good mix. She turns to what’s left of the gang, meaning Lisbon, Manila and Stockholm. Perfect. Time for some girl talk.

“Quick question! How mad is Berlín gonna be when I make a move on his wife?”

This gets her a few laughs, but Tokyo is dead serious. Raquel stares at her with wide eyes.

 _“Ex-wife”,_ Julia corrects with a smile.

“I know, but it's _Berlín_. He's gonna throw a fit and scream in front of everybody, or something. Oh! Will I need to tie him up again?”

Raquel shakes her head.

“I think it’s become pretty obvious that he doesn’t love her anymore”, she points out. “Assuming he ever did.”

“I still wouldn't recommend provoking Berlín”, Mónica intervenes. “Especially _today.”_

“Maybe you want to say that to your husband too, he’s practically groping Palermo right now”, Tokyo snaps back with a laugh. “Berlín looks pissed, by the way. You should probably get on that.”

Mónica rolls her eyes, but she does go to Denver’s rescue, before he gets himself stabbed with a fork too.

Raquel still looks at Tokyo, intrigued.

“What’s your angle?”, she eventually asks. “Why are you trying to piss him off?”

“Not everything is about _him”_ , Tokyo scoffs. “She was already on my radar. Before. I've heard pianists are good with their fingers, that's all.”

Manila laughs and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“If I were you, I’d still wait a while. At least until after the first dance. Denver told me they’re planning something, and if she’s their pianist, she’ll be busy for a bit.”

“What are they planning?”

Julia shrugs.

“I don’t know much”, she replies. “But Helsinki’s involved. Nairobi too, I think.”

“How come _you_ know that? No one ever tells me anything.”

“I heard bits and pieces. Dani’s really loud when he’s on the phone. Especially during wedding planning, he was- he took it really seriously.”

Tokyo tries not to laugh at that. That’s actually sweet.

Her attention is caught by the grooms again. Berlín is whining to Sergio about needing to wrap up because they’re going to “lose daylight” or some bullshit. Which is fucking grand, because it’s not even noon. They haven't had lunch yet. 

Nairobi tries to appease Berlín and calls for everyone’s attention.

“Paula, _querida_ , go pose with your uncles. We’ll do a few family portraits since we're all here.”

The girl gives Marsella's dog one last pat on the head, before skipping towards the portion of the courtyard where the photo-shoot is taking place. When she gets to them, she hugs Berlín immediately, and he maintains a perfectly straight posture, but Tokyo spots the little smile on his face. Which becomes a big smile after Palermo reprimands Paula for _“playing favorites when she knows which one is actually the cool uncle”_ , and he ends up getting a hug as well. 

The grooms start bickering playfully, vying for their _favorite niece_ ’s attention, but all three of them look like they’re having the best of times. No one actually looks at the camera lens, and Nairobi decides to snap a few more candid shots. Palermo is ranting furiously, with a lot of hand gestures, and Berlín has the audacity to look pleased. _Fond._

That’s what Bogotá was talking about earlier, isn’t it? 

Picture perfect.

Raquel and Marivi join Paula in front of the camera, Sergio goes back for another round as well, and eventually, the whole gang is crowded around the newlyweds. It takes a while, but they end up getting all the pictures they need, and then some. Tatiana even offers to take over the camera so Río and Nairobi can pose with them. 

The grooms claim group pictures are _not the priority_ , but Palermo still wraps his arms around Raquel and Sergio, and when Berlín sees it he smiles the widest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: this is a serious fic, I should avoid crack ships  
> Also me: _Tokiana Fandom, rise up!!_
> 
> I will answer any and all questions about this curveball - nay, this _statement_ \- that I threw at you on this fine day. I just think Tokyo is as close as it gets to a female Berlín, and Tatiana has a type. 
> 
> Yes, dashwood and boom_slap, this was my plan all along and I shamelessly lied to you both in order to protect my poorly kept secret. I’m not sorry.


	6. An echo of Buenos Aires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín feels dizzy. He would say the room is spinning, except he’s not in a room, he’s outdoors in the courtyard. And saying that the _outside_ is spinning sounds worse, somehow. He’s not drunk, not even a little tipsy. He only had one glass of champagne today. 
> 
> Andrés handed him that glass.
> 
> His _husband_ handed him that glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for tuning in. We’re [back in the courtyard](https://www.greece-is.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/RHODES_PALACE_OF_THE_GRANDE_MASTERS_02.jpg) for the wedding reception!
> 
> I went full fluff, I’m soft, nobody fucking touch me.

Martín feels dizzy. He would say the room is spinning, except he’s not in a room, he’s outdoors in the courtyard. And saying that the _outside_ is spinning sounds worse, somehow. He’s not drunk, not even a little tipsy. He only had one glass of champagne today, right before lunch, as a little celebration when they wrapped up the wedding photo-shoot. 

Andrés handed him that glass.

His _husband_ handed him that glass. 

And there lies, obviously, the reason for Martín's state of vertigo. 

Because when Andrés put a glass of champagne in his hand and kissed his neck and called him his husband, it all fell apart, it all fell into place. They did get married, it _happened._ And worse than that, Martín _believes_ that it happened. He’s no longer wondering if this is a dream, no longer fearing Andrés is gonna bolt any minute - he won’t, he’s been glued to him all day, it’s delightful - and most importantly, he’s no longer questioning anything. At all. 

Andrés loves him. 

Andrés married him. 

Andrés is holding his hand under the table.

So, feeling a little lightheaded seems only fair. The bare minimum, really, considering the day he’s having. 

The music changes, and it’s oddly familiar. It reminds him of home. Well, a home that is not a home anymore. An echo of Buenos Aires. Martín’s home can no longer be pinpointed on a map. It’s subject to change. Martín’s home is sitting next to him, and there’s a devastating smile on his face and a golden ring on his left hand. 

Before he can ask about the music, he sees Andrés straightening up on his chair, looking at him.

“Martín, _mi amor,_ there is something I need to do”, he annonces gravely.

“What is it?”

“Stay right where you are”, Andrés commands, ignoring his question. 

He presses his lips to Martín’s temple before standing up, leaving the table, and taking a few steps across the courtyard. 

Andrés stops only a few feet from him and turns around to face the table full of guests. The chatter quickly dies down. All eyes are on him. 

“Yeah, speech time!”, Denver yells from his seat next to Martín, raising his glass. His best man must be at least a little buzzed if he’s thrilled at the idea of Andrés speaking.

A speech, then. Of course. Martín expected it.

“Dear colleagues and friends. _Familia”,_ Andrés starts. He sounds very formal, but he smiles as he speaks. “Thank you all for coming today. Many of you, for the party and the drinks, I am sure. But I am grateful nonetheless that you were here, to share our joy and celebrate with us. And most importantly, to bear witness as I took this man to be my husband.”

These words elicit a few cheers and more raised glasses. Denver puts both hands on Martín’s shoulders and shakes him vigorously, as he always does in victory. A soccer goal. A board game win. A successful heist. Martín turns to him and returns his smile. Yep, that’s a victory right there. As Denver would probably put it, Martín scored big time, today. 

But he turns his attention back on Andrés. He’ll give high-fives later. His _husband_ is speaking.

“Our day was perfect Martín. Not everything went as we planned, but it was perfect. It is. I know you believe I was hoping for something more sophisticated, and I do have a taste for luxury, it’s true. I love a grandiose event. But more than that, I love you, Martín. So much so that everything else about this wedding is completely irrelevant. We could have gotten married in the sewers, and it would have been perfect.”

Martín nearly chokes in laughter. Because it’s obviously not true. But the mere fact that Andrés would say that is so fucking charming. Hearing it is enough. 

Still, he quips:

“I know you mean the Catacombs of Paris. Those are not sewers, Andrés!”

“But you do see it, don’t you? There’s potent romanticism in the macabre.”

Sergio whispers to Raquel “This isn’t going anywhere, is it?”, and Martín is not even mad. That guy is his brother in law now, and they’re both happy about it. What happened to them?

“So, Martín”, Andrés continues, and it’s becoming clear that it’s less of a speech, and more of a one sided conversation with him - and Martín is fine with that. “I chose to marry you here because this place charmed me, because it suits _us._ But the setting doesn’t matter to me, not really. I am as surprised as anyone else. Since we are fortunate enough to do something truly unique for our nuptials, of course I brought you to a palace deserving of you. I chose it for you, Martín. So you and I could dance among the gods. It was never about the details. I needed to show you that it was my best wedding yet. And it is. By far, it is. I want to give you the best wedding, and the best marriage. I want to give you _everything._ But you know that already, don't you?”

And there it is. Martín swallows back the tears because he’s cried enough already. But he does feel the tell-tale prickle behind his eyes. Judging by Andrés’s smile, he can tell. He could always read him, even from a distance.

“Which seems like the perfect moment to point out that someone else I married is in attendance today.”

Martín hears a loud cheer from the musicians and only then realizes Tatiana is still behind the piano.

Only Nairobi lets out a very loud _“Her?”_ and Andrés grins wider. But he doesn’t look away from Martín once.

“Yes, I invited my ex-wife. I have four more of those, but she's the only one who still talks to me. I must have done something right, at last.”

“You're the worst!”, Tatiana laughs. 

“Oh, I like her already”, Nairobi mutters.

“Because Tatiana is here, and because my poor husband had to suffer through my last wedding, we both knew that I had to do something different. Something _better._ I cannot have my soulmate thinking that I love him any less. Especially when I love him more than I can say with words. Either my words, or those I could borrow from the artists and the poets. Which is why I will not be using words right now.”

Martín's first thought is that Andrés is going to use _his body._ He has no idea where this is going, but he's fucking on board.

Helsinki silently leaves the table to walk towards Tatiana and the rest of the musicians. He takes a seat and picks up an accordion. No, a _bandoneón._ Martín has never seen one outside of Argentina. 

Andrés walks back towards Martín and extends his arm, beaming and elegant and perfect.

“Would my husband like to join me for a dance?”

Martín takes his hand and follows him in a daze. They come to a stop in the middle of the courtyard, and Andrés carefully positions an arm around his waist. He extends his other arm to the side, still holding Martín's hand. 

Then the music starts, fast, familiar, and Martín feels his eyes widen as he recognizes the first few enticing notes. 

Andrés immediately starts leading them and he can only follow, dancing with practiced ease and a million questions in his head. Andrés's every step is calculated, fast paced and yet incredibly graceful. 

“Andrés, how the fuck did you learn to tango without me knowing?”

Andrés smiles as they spin and brings his face closer, briefly leaning his forehead against Martín's.

“So I can still surprise you, then?”

He seems awfully proud of himself.

“How, Andrés?”

“Nairobi and Helsinki lived in Argentina for a while. They're both quite good at it. Decent teachers.”

Martín lets out a laugh and almost misses a step. Almost. 

“I love you.”

He does. He's said those words quite a lot today, and meant them just a bit more every single time.

“You're lucky it wasn't Tokyo or Denver, because I wouldn't have bothered.”

“Yes you would have! You love me that much...”

Right then, Andrés unexpectedly brings his leg forward and pushes Martín backwards, catching him in an almost horizontal position. A dip. He hovers above him and carries most of Martín's weight just on his thigh, before dragging him back up and making him twirl effortlessly. 

That was quite impressive. And if Martín is being honest, way too arousing for such a public setting. Where they are expected to interact with other people for a few hours at least. Why didn't they elope again? 

He’s not the only one to be really taken by their dance. As Andrés does an elaborate lift - which, by the way, _hot_ \- he slides a possessive hand over Martín’s thigh, a hand that does not need to be there for the lift. Martín doesn’t mention it. 

He’s acutely aware of the warmth of Andrés’s body against him, his shape, his firmness, as his hands on Martín are holding him impossibly close. Tango is fast paced by nature, it’s swift movements and abrupt pauses. It tells a story of pain and desire. And Andrés is fucking _great_ at it. Which is a gift Martín was not ready for.

Andrés’s unexpected dancing skills are doing a lot of things to him. And not only due to the overwhelmingly sweet gesture of having learned tango _in secret._ For _him._ It’s also in the knowledge that Andrés can carry him and lift him, with strength and artistry. It’s in the way he manhandles him, pushes him around, plays with Martín’s trust and catches him every time. 

Martín cannot stress enough how much he wants this man.

Andrés's mind seems to be in the same place right now, because he leans in and whispers in his ear.

“You need to distract me, Martín. All I want to do right now is take you away to consummate this union.”

Martín huffs and leans back to look him in the eyes.

“What, and you think I don't want you to? Let’s ditch this fucking reception, I don’t care if it’s ours!”

“You need to work on your patience, _mi amor._ ” 

Right. Of course Andrés would say that. He’s all for delayed gratification. And not just because of his alleged taste for _tradition._ He always loves to rile Martín up, to keep him on his toes. Why would today be any different?

Martín grabs Andrés's hand - way lower on his hip that it needs to be - and slides it back on his waist. Where it _should_ have been.

“We'll start with moving those hands, if you don’t want me distracted”, he mocks.

“Of course I want you distracted.”

They stay silent for a little while, and it's electric between them. 

Then Andrés makes the mistake of provoking him again.

“You're oddly quiet. Tell me, _cariño,_ have I surpassed you already? Do you need to focus on following the steps?”

Martín feels his blood boil. What a condescending jerk - a condescending jerk that he _married._ Still, he firmly intends to make him swallow his words. Martín adjusts his stance, leans in closer with a meaningful stare, and he can pinpoint the exact moment when Andrés decides to kiss him. 

Andrés leans his head forward, his eyes starting to close, but his lips don’t find Martín’s.

Instead, Martín nearly trips him up, quickly shifting his legs to pull a surprise move on him, and it's his turn to demonstrate a dip. On Andrés. Martín catches him, of course. He even holds him dangerously close to the floor as he carries his weight over his bent leg. Andrés is caught off guard. And, quite literally, _caught_ in his husband's arms. Seeing him gape - his parted lips, his eyes wide in disbelief - is such a sweet reward for Martín's daring move.

“Don't challenge me where you can't keep up, _cariño._ I may have a few tricks to teach you yet.”

He pulls him back up, positions Andrés's hand on his own shoulder, and just like that, Martín is leading him. His movements are not only faster, but more precise.

Andrés's face shifts from shock to amazement. Martín notices how his lips are pinched in a tight line - in concentration. _He’s_ actually the one who needs to focus in order to follow Martín's lead, now. And still, he seems delighted at the prospect. Andrés might have enjoyed leading the dance - a bit too much, perhaps - but it's obvious how affected he is by the notion of Martín taking over. Not only does he love his boldness, he also admires Martín as he showcases the full range of his dancing abilities.

If Martín hadn't already been blushing for the entire dance - for the entire _day_ \- his face would be heating up as he feels those adoring eyes trained on him. 

The song ends and fades into another one. A different tango. Slower, but just as intense. They don't stop dancing for a second.

Martín eventually speaks again.

“I'm impressed, Andrés, I really am.”

And he means it. His moves are not flawless, but they _are_ impressive. Andrés demonstrates skill, but also passion. 

“But come on”, he adds with a smirk. “You didn't think you'd be a match for those Argentinian legs after just a few months of amateur tango lessons, did you?”

“Years, actually”, Andrés corrects, very casually.

His tone is even, and his fingers are caressing the hair above the nape of Martín's neck. He doesn't elaborate, and Martín desperately needs him to.

“What do you mean, _years?_ We got engaged six months ago.”

“You _proposed_ six months ago”, Andrés points out. “But this little surprise, as well as this wedding, have been in the works for much longer than that.”

Martín gasps. He kept this secret for _years?_ Just to surprise him? Because he knew, years ago, that the day would come when he would marry Martín, and he ran with it? Fuck _“Ti Amo”,_ and fuck everything Andrés ever did for any of his brides. _This_ is the ultimate romantic gesture. This is- This is baffling.

Because it’s the most _Andrés_ thing Martín has ever heard of, and yet his brain fails to compute the information. It was for him. He did it, all of it, _for him._

Andrés fully takes advantage of his shock to twirl him in his arms. And when he brings his body close again, smiling devilishly, Martín realizes Andrés has resumed leading the dance. 

“Sneaky”, he accuses, but he's almost laughing.

He could easily take over again. He will never get tired of the look on Andrés's face when Martín is _taking charge._ But he doesn't. He lets him lead for the remainder of the song. This romantic son of a bitch has earned it.

They keep it up for a few minutes, somewhat innocently. Well, as innocently as humanly possible, considering the way Andrés is looking at him. Martín still feels warm all over as he's being led, spun around, held so close. Tango leaves very little room for innocence. 

When this second song eventually ends, they stop in their tracks and hear cheers and claps around them. Martín hadn't even noticed that everyone got up to watch them dance, transfixed as he was on Andrés's face. On his movements and his words. Andrés raises an eyebrow - as though he’s genuinely surprised that their performance warrants applause - and of course Martín has to kiss him. He just has to.

It's short and sweet, just a peck on the lips. Neither of them can handle more than that, not after that dance.

Music starts again, not a tango this time, and Martín looks around.

“Come on everyone! Enough gawking, more celebrating. This is a wedding. Let's dance!”

This seems to be the signal they were waiting for, because all at once Martín and his _husband_ are surrounded by jumping bodies and joyful faces. 

“I'll see you in a moment, Martín”, Andrés announces with another kiss, on the cheek this time. “I believe I promised Nairobi a dance.”

Martín nods before he all but runs towards the musicians. Helsinki has only just put down his instrument and Martín jumps to hug him. 

“How the fuck did you pull that off?”, he asks, breathless as he pulls away.

Helsinki gives him a bashful smile and tries to brush it off.

“It was Nairobi too, I wasn't alone. So, did you like it?”

“Did I like- _Por favor,_ Helsi. Didn’t you see? Yes of course I _liked it._ I fucking loved it. And you played too? That was amazing!”

He pats him on the shoulder for good measure, and this time Helsinki doesn't deflect his gratitude.

“Alright, enough of that”, he says, vaguely waving a hand towards the musicians - who completely ignore him. “Come dance with the grooms and that's an order.”

He grabs his arm and points to the woman still sitting in front of the piano. 

“You too Tatiana! You're a great pianist but _por dios,_ you're here as a guest. You better have a blast!”

And he drags them both to the dancefloor - well, the courtyard - to party with the others. 

They keep dancing for hours on end. The table with great food and even greater drinks isn’t very far, whenever someone needs a break. But Martín just keeps moving. He wants to share a special moment with each and every one of their guests. And he knows his _husband_ also makes a point to leave a lasting impression on everybody. He even sees Andrés share a dance with Tokyo - although a short one - and she appears to be extra nice to him today. Extra nice to both of the grooms, actually. It’s unsettling at first, but her genuine smiles are a nice change of pace. Perhaps she feels happy for them, after all.

As Martín gracefully leads Stockholm in a salsa, he spots Andrés smiling at him from across the small crowd of dancing figures. And Martín is forced to agree with him. 

Today is fucking perfect. It isn't, but it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember in Chapter 4, when Tokyo wanted the grooms to do the garter thing? Well I wrote [a little companion piece in which they actually do the garter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25268530). I didn’t include it in the main fic because it’s kind of redundant with the tango scene: sexual tension with no pay-off, and then feelings. Or as boom_slap calls it, _"fluffy eroticism"_.


	7. So much secrecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín laughs again, finding himself thinking - not for the first time today - that Andrés is the most wonderful, most ridiculous man he’s ever known. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three chapters left, and this one is. Different.

As the afternoon sun starts its descent, and only a few of the guests are still dancing, Manila clears the space and sends them all back to the table. Helsinki and Tokyo are by her side.

“Alright, everyone”, Manila starts when all eyes are on her. “I’ve been informed that you heathens are _not_ doing a bouquet toss. This is discrimination against single people, and we won’t stand for it.”

“So we’re going to dance instead, and you’re going to watch us”, Tokyo explains, and Martín is too far away from Andrés to actually hear him, but he _knows_ he just audibly sighed. 

“Which is why I would like to invite all the single people here to join us on the dancefloor. This is a little number that we learned last week from a very patient, very muscular Greek god in a fireman outfit. A charming gentleman by the name of Hector, who was the highlight of Palermo’s bachelor party.”

Tokyo looks at Martín with a shit eating grin and he gives her the finger.

The musicians start playing again, and this is the first time Martín gets to hear a rendition of Beyoncé's _“Single Ladies”_ with concert instruments. 

It’s absolutely glorious. 

Manila, Helsinki and Tokyo begin their well rehearsed routine and, soon enough, most guests are joining in. Raquel nearly topples over with laughter when she sees her mother try and fail to follow the steps, and Tatiana patiently adjusts Río’s stance so he will stop stepping on her feet. Even Marsella eventually joins in, his puppy running in circles around his legs as he dances. Martín has to admit he wishes he’d come up with that kind of reception entertainment. Although, to be fair, he is a _“single lady”_ no more. 

Martín sees Andrés shake his head in the distance, and expects him to return to his side pretty soon. If nothing else, to be distracted from this.

In the meantime, Martín goes to sit next to Nairobi. She smiles at him, before they both turn their eyes towards this trainwreck of a choreography. That they learned from Hector, apparently.

Martín’s bachelor party was an eventful night, indeed. It started out quite innocently, with a pleasant bus ride and some local sightseeing; which was followed by a pretty intense car chase involving vehicles from the Athens Police Department. There are now several outstanding arrest warrants for severe traffic violations, filed against a party bus with a strip-club logo on the side, and isn’t that just grand? 

(He just prays this detail of the evening hasn’t reached Sergio yet, but the fact that Martín didn’t get an earful about it probably means he doesn’t know). 

And after that, of course, there was the actual _partying..._

“Wait a minute!”, Martín asks, dumbfounded. “When did they even have the time to learn that dance?”

“Denver booked the strippers for the entire night. That would have been a waste not to”, she explains, very matter-of-fact. _“You_ might have been done with Hector, but we were _not._ What do you think happened after we delivered your drunk ass to Berlín?”

Oh. Right. Martín remembers that part. Well, he remembers a vague feeling of longing for Andrés. That feeling is actually a constant in his life. Drunk _and_ sober. Although he supposes his drunk self was less subtle about it. He doesn't remember exactly what he said, but there's a video, on someone's phone, somewhere, of Martín sitting in the party bus. Covered in glitter. Bawling. He’s describing Andrés's body in excruciating detail, with a silly smile on his face and tears in his eyes as he slurs the words of praise. The video also features a half naked guy rubbing circles on Martín’s back, going _“let it out, let it out”_ in a thick Greek accent. Another voice off camera - Denver - can be heard saying _“you're marrying him in less than a week, Palermo”_ to which he replies _“but I wanna see him now!”._

Martín was at Andrés's doorstep not fifteen minutes after that. Well, at the winery where Andrés had been holding his own bachelor party. The boring one. 

If Andrés has seen the video, he hasn't mentioned it to Martín. He probably has. It would be a miracle if they collectively refrained from showing it to him. 

“Should I be worried about this _Hector?”,_ Andrés chimes in as he sits next to Martín.

Nairobi huffs at the question. 

Yeah. It's coming back now. It was her. Nairobi was the one who filmed Martín drunkenly waxing poetry about his fiancé's body - and his face, and his voice, and everything else - so she knows for a fact that Andrés has absolutely nothing to worry about.

“Come on, we're _married”,_ Martín replies instead, and it's both a valid argument and a sweet reminder for himself. “Besides, you _know_ there’s only one naked body I wanna look at. All day. Every day. If I had any say in it, you’d be naked right now. That’s how good you look.”

“Flattery will take you nowhere.”

“Flattery took me pretty far already, didn’t it?”, Martín brags, waving the hand where Andrés most definitely did _put a ring on it._

Andrés smiles fondly. It’s not that often that Martín gets the last word. He basks in it for a while.

Of course, that’s the moment Nairobi chooses to meddle.

“You know what Berlín, maybe you _should_ be worried about Hector”, she starts, very pleased with herself. “Palermo was _all over him_ at his bachelor party and-”

“Um, correction! _He_ was all over me”, Martín interrupts, exaggerating his outrage. “And then, I sent him _all over_ Denver. Obviously.”

“Which one was Hector?”, Andrés asks.

“Just a sec”, Nairobi says as she looks something up on her phone. “That one!”

She hands it over and Andrés carefully grabs it. The cellphone is playing one of the many videos recorded inside the party bus - or, as Andrés likes to call it, the _den of iniquity on wheels._ Thankfully, Martín is not featured in that particular video. Instead, it’s a bright red Río wearing a fireman helmet who was recorded. On the receiving end of a lap-dance.

There isn’t much left of the fireman outfit on Hector’s impressive body.

“I see”, Andrés says, his eyes not leaving the screen.

His tone is perfectly composed, and to anyone else, Andrés would sound very calm and polite. Lost in thought, perhaps. But Martín can tell he’s positively fuming. And this sudden bout of jealousy does not leave him indifferent. 

Andrés was never insecure about his body. Nor should he be, good lord, how Martín loves that body. Worships it. But right now, Andrés is staring at the video with clenched fists and hatred in his eyes. As though anyone could ever bring Martín's attention away from him. That’s just absurd. But the jealousy is flattering. _Promising,_ too. Martín feels warm all over. Andrés is deliciously angry. Which means he's definitely thinking about the many ways he intends to remind Martín who he belongs to, later today. God, he hopes so.

“I know, right!”, Nairobi continues, very much enjoying this. “Hector was probably the one with the best body, wouldn’t you agree, Palermo? Also, he was very nice. Well-spoken, with a sexy accent. And he’s actually a professional dancer. He used to tour with Beyoncé, so you know he's a catch. _The whole package._ Pun intended.”

Andrés hands her back the phone, holding it with only two fingers as though the device is riddled with diseases. 

“Río doesn’t look well”, is his only comment.

Martín bursts out laughing. He’d also thought the kid was just extremely embarrassed, at first. Turns out Río was beet red for an entirely different reason.

“Yeah, we had to take him to the emergency room, like, right after that”, Nairobi replies with a grin. When Andrés raises an eyebrow at that, she adds: “Allergic reaction. Hector really overdoes it with the body glitter. Manila had the same issue, and you better believe she was _pissed._ Don’t worry, he showered before he picked them up from the hospital.”

It’s Martín’s turn to have his eyebrows shoot up to the sky.

“Wait, _he_ picked them up? _Hector?_ Why?”

Nairobi looks at him mysteriously.

“Helsinki asked nicely.”

There’s definitely a story there. But before he can pry further, the performance they were no longer watching has ended. Nairobi jumps on her feet and drags Bogotá to dance with her.

Martín just stares at Andrés's profile, elegant and distant. Regal. He's not looking at him, and Martín can almost hear the cogs turning in his head. If he only knew what that bachelor night actually entailed. What it was truly about. If you only knew, Andrés.

At last, a little smile appears on Andrés's face when Martín’s hand finds its way on his thigh - how did _that_ happen, he wonders - and he firmly intends to take him away, somewhere private, right the fuck now. Channel that pent up anger into something productive. 

But before he can suggest this brilliant course of action to Andrés, a breathless, panicked face appears before him.

“Palermo! I need to talk to you _now”,_ Denver starts, his voice loud and his eyes wide. _“One on one.”_

Andrés doesn’t even raise an eyebrow at that, but Martín is still offended on his behalf.

“Denver, you know I don’t have secrets for my _husband”_ , he replies with a smirk.

His best man gives him a weird look.

“It’s about the _bachelor party”,_ Denver insists. “I don’t remember what you did with one of the- But maybe you do. It’s- Palermo, it’s _bad.”_

Oh. Okay. Martín immediately gets up and sends Andrés an apologetic look. 

“I’ll be right back.”

“So much secrecy”, Andrés scoffs, but he returns his smile.

Yeah, Martín lied just now. 

He _does_ have secrets for his husband. One secret. And he would rather Andrés doesn’t find out like that.

The issue doesn’t take that long to address, and Denver promises to take care of it. Maybe Martín shouldn’t trust him, but he does.

To Martín’s greatest surprise, Andrés doesn’t ask any questions when he returns from his impromptu meeting with Denver. Which is a relief. Instead, he holds out his hand and takes him dancing again. This is not what Martín was hoping for, but he's game. He's up for anything, if that's what his husband wants.

Andrés is oddly silent. Martín knows he isn’t mad at him - mad at Denver, perhaps - but he is troubled. Pensive. It’s unbearable. He needs access to those mysterious thoughts. And he needs to hear that delicious voice of his.

“Are you gonna share with the class?”, he teases.

“I don’t know. Are _you?”,_ Andrés replies in the same tone. “I know you’re hiding something from me.”

Of course he does. Martín winks at him and tries to lean in for a kiss, but Andrés pulls away before their lips meet. 

Rude. 

Andrés straightens his back and stares at him. It seems his approach changes entirely. It's not just in his posture, it's his mood too. 

The playful attitude is gone. 

His grip on Martín’s waist grows _tight._ And not only in a possessive way. Just shy of painful. His gaze bores into Martín, heated, intense, as if studying him. Looking for answers his face doesn’t give him. His lips are distorted in something close to a sneer, and there is no humor in it. 

Martín is reminded that this man is dangerous. Not to him, never, but he is. And in his position, most people would probably back away and cower in fear. He doesn’t. Martín isn’t scared of Andrés, has never been. But if there is a moment when he _should_ be, it’s probably this one. 

He just smiles patiently. He doesn’t hate this intensity on Andrés. It’s alluring, actually. And it suits him. Martín can simply wait for him to share what troubles him. 

He knows the question is coming when Andrés wraps his other hand behind his neck, just as tight as the one on his waist. His nails are digging into the skin of his nape, and Martín’s eyes flutter shut from the sharp pain. From the warmth of it. He doesn’t wince. He feels like purring, actually. May Andrés never take his hands off him.

“There is something I need to ask you, Martín, and I will only ask once”, he starts, his tone cold and distant. “I expect you to tell me the truth.”

Martín looks at him intently and gives a slight nod. He feels the corners of his mouth rise up when the movement enhances the sensations of Andrés's hand on him. Fingertips pushing against the skin of his neck. He hums, low in his throat. 

He can already tell that the nod wasn’t enough, though. Andrés wants him to say it.

“Of course I won’t lie to you”, he eventually answers. “Never, I promise.”

“That’s better”, Andrés replies, his tone still icy. “Then tell me this, Martín. Did something happen at your bachelor party?”

Martín sighs and keeps swaying lazily, amused. So this is indeed what this was about.

 _“Many things_ happened at my bachelor party”, he taunts, enjoying the tension between them. “So you’ll need to narrow it down. And I’m sure you know most of it already. But for everything else that happened, I’d say it is, quite frankly, none of your fucking business.”

Martín can’t contain his grin. He adores this expression of shock on Andrés’s face, how truly _offended_ he looks.

“You disappoint me, Martín”, he eventually lets out, but his eyes are kinder on him. “You promised me the truth.”

“I said I _wouldn’t lie”,_ he corrects, triumphant. “And I didn’t. But I don’t have to tell you anything either.”

Andrés doesn’t push, as if he knows Martín will cave.

And he does. The heavy silence is worse than the prying.

“Fine, what do you wanna know?”, he sighs.

“It alright. Your demeanor already gave me an answer. I’ve determined that you’re innocent.”

He speaks the words like a judicial ruling. Like a religious figure granting absolution.

“Innocent of what?”, Martín asks, still intrigued.

“Simply put, I was starting to wonder if you could ever betray me. I didn’t think you could. But then again, I’ve been married before.”

Martín can’t help it. He bursts out laughing. It courses through his entire body and he leans his forehead on Andrés’s shoulder. Shaking. 

“Oh my fucking god, is this about the _stripper?!_ You’re so fucking dramatic, Andrés. _¡Por favor!_ You _know_ Nairobi was playing with you.”

“Of course I know. And I would never seriously doubt you Martín. How could I?”

His hand leaves his flushed neck and finds its way on his cheek instead. A tender caress. His palm is soft and warm, and Martín leans into the touch.

“However, you _have_ been keeping things from me. You still are. And I find your best man disturbingly friendly.”

Martín laughs again, finding himself thinking - not for the first time today - that Andrés is the most wonderful, most ridiculous man he’s ever known. 

“Of course Denver likes me. I’m a fucking delight.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Cariño, are you _threatened_ by him?”

“Quite the opposite, actually. I wonder if I need to _threaten him.”_

“He’s done nothing wrong and you will leave him alone”, Martín decides, hoping to convey finality in his tone. “I have a very good reason not to tell you what happened at the bachelor’s, and you’re going to trust me on this. But you’ve got to know - and I can’t believe I have to say it - that no, _I didn't fuck anyone._ Not Hector, not fucking _Denver._ If I remember correctly, they brought me to _you_ for that. Or did you forget how that night ended?”

Martín stares at him intently and gets a hint of a smile for his efforts.

“You could have felt guilty. You were emotional. And not very coherent.”

“I was _missing_ my fiancé. My _husband_ now. No take-backs!”

Andrés slowly leans in and presses his mouth against Martín’s neck, on his pulse point. He doesn’t exactly kiss it, but his lips caress the skin. It’s distracting. Martín still has a point to make.

“Hold up, this can’t be right”, he says, pulling away to look in his eyes. “You thought I might’ve _cheated_ on you. First of all, do you know how dumb that sounds? And you just- What? Casually bring it up during a dance. In the middle of the reception. Like you were- cool with it? 

“Oh, I most definitely wasn’t. They would have never found his body.”

“Or mine.”

Andrés looks genuinely surprised at that.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I could never hurt you.” 

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re the forgiving type.”

“It’s _you,_ Martín”, Andrés insists, as though it’s obvious. “Don’t get me wrong, I would have made you regret it. Of course. I would have made you _pay_. But I’d still keep you around.”

Well, that’s new.

“Why?”

“You _know_ why.”

Martín leans in for another kiss, and this time Andrés lets him. 

He feels like crying. Again. Andrés has been cheated on before, and he’s never shown such restraint. Such capacity for forgiveness. Such _love,_ plain and simple. 

But that’s neither here nor there, since Martín will not so much as _look_ at anyone else. Ever. How could he? When _this_ is the husband he was given? Andrés is the man you cheat on your partner _with._ Not the one you cheat _on._ That’s just common sense.

God, if Andrés weren’t such a good kisser, Martín might burst out laughing again. Instead he wraps his arms around Andrés’s neck, and pretends it doesn’t make him lightheaded how jealous he can get. He bites down at Andrés’s lower lip, and just as expected, he hears a groan and a warm tongue slides into his mouth, sensual and relentless. 

They’re not really dancing anymore, just swaying pleasantly and tasting the champagne and wine off each other’s mouths. Andrés kisses him like they’re still at the altar. 

Martín justifiably feels like the luckiest bastard on this Earth right now. To be fair, he probably is.

By some miracle of life and nature, this kiss comes to an end, and Martín opens his eyes to look at him. Beautiful, powerful. Happy. Before either of them can say anything, Martín feels the light tap of a hand on his shoulder.

“Move over, I’m cutting in”, Tatiana informs them with a bright smile. “I was promised I could borrow the groom for a moment.” 

Martín is too drunk on happiness to even be jealous.

“Yeah, you can have him. Just bring him back when you’re done”, he answers, his eyes trained on Andrés.

Tatiana let out a small laugh, a musical and delicate thing.

“I meant the _other_ groom”, she explains. “I've danced with you plenty already, Andrés. Although you did improve quite a bit, from what I saw today. But no, I'm taking _you._ ”

She grabs Martín’s arm, and Andrés looks displeased that his ex-wife would _steal_ his husband like that. Well, Martín kind of stole her own husband from her first, and she’s been a sweetheart about it. She can ask for a dance anytime she wants, to be honest. She could have asked for a whole lot more. 

Still, Martín gives Andrés one last peck on the lips before turning to Tatiana, happy to dance with her.

“I suppose I’ll ask Raquel for another dance”, Andrés concedes. “She and I have a lot to discuss, apparently.”

He smiles at him before disappearing in the crowd. 

Martín puts his hand on Tatiana’s waist, and they get started on a simple waltz. Which is pleasant, _easy,_ after Andrés, after that trainwreck of a conversation, after the _tango_ \- a high from which Martín is still coming down.

It's odd, seeing her today, after so long. Tatiana and Martín weren't exactly friends, but there was always this kinship, this understanding between them. A shared love for Andrés. 

They don't know each other that well. But they have so much in common. And not just a husband. Their career path too.

“I heard about your heist in Prague. Quite impressive...”

She lights up at the mention.

“Well, I'm not _National Gold_ rich like some people, but I'm doing pretty well. The more reason to celebrate tonight! I'm planning to dance with every one of your guests. Including the dog!”

“Can't wait to see that.”

Then an idea comes to him. A bad one.

“I'll do you one better, Tatiana. I can point out who in the gang is single. You know, if you're feeling frisky. ”

Martín wiggles his eyebrows and she laughs.

“What a gracious host”, she mocks. “But no need for that. I already have my eye on someone.”

“Do I wanna know?”

“You probably do, but I’m not telling you...”

“Well, you’re uninvited from the wedding”, he jokes. “Please leave.”

“All you need to know is that it's not your _husband_ I have my eye on”, she adds with a smile, and Martín wasn't even thinking about that. “God, no, I've done my time. You better believe he's all yours.”

“You're too generous, too kind”, Martín jokes.

“Well, the good people of Czcek Republic would probably disagree with you.”

Martín remembers why he used to hate Tatiana so much. Besides the obvious reason. He hated her because she was impossible to hate. Beautiful and charming and funny. Hatred bounces off of her skin and never gets to her. You like her, whether you want to or not. And it’s so much more bearable, now that he no longer has any _reason_ to hate her. Now that he has Andrés. 

So Martín dances with Tatiana, and decides inviting her was definitely a good call.

That’s when it happens. 

The silence. 

The music suddenly stops, and it shouldn’t have. The party is far from over. And they were only halfway through their dance. Martín looks around, and only meets surprised faces. He doesn’t see Andrés, but his eyes find Sergio. Next to the musicians. Agitated.

He's the one who just instructed them to stop playing, it seems. Martín lets go of Tatiana and mirrors most of the guests walking towards Sergio. 

“What's going on?”, he asks, probably louder than he should.

Martín is not angry, just confused. He pushes between Helsinki and Stockholm, and sees Sergio raising a finger in front of his mouth, signaling to everyone around him to remain silent. Only then does Martín understand the look on his face. 

Panic. 

Crazy eyed, unadulterated, full-blow terror. Martín feels a chill coursing down his spine.

“Nobody move”, Sergio whispers. “Don’t say anything. Don’t make any noise.”

He sounds more calm and collected than he looks.

Andrés eventually gets to them as well and eyes his brother curiously. He doesn't need to ask for Sergio to answer.

“I'm so sorry, Andrés”, he starts, and he sounds genuine. “But it’s over. We need to start the evacuation plan. Now.”

“What are you on about?”, Martín asks, in a whisper this time.

Sergio takes a step towards him and puts a hand on his shoulder, in a gesture that he wants comforting. It's not. But it's sweet that he's trying. 

Martín knows, even before he speaks, that it's bad. That he will not like whatever it is Sergio has to say. He can sense it in his demeanor, in his voice, in his eyes. And still. Still, nothing could have prepared him for what Sergio actually says.

“We have to go now”, he repeats, his gaze intense, almost feral. “We have to go, Martín. The police are here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t hate me you know I had to do it to 'em.


	8. Team Palermo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems Andrés's wedding will be memorable for the wrong reasons entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first (and only) chapter that follows not one, but two points of view. Just because.

A party, especially a wedding reception, is a delicate thing. It's hard to get the atmosphere just right. But Andrés did. With Martín - for Martín - he created something truly grand. 

The setting is appropriate, nothing quite like a sunny European palace to make them feel like gods among men. The music is refined, concert instruments only, obviously. The food is exquisite, and the wine extremely rare. 

Even better, the guests from Andrés's past are seamlessly blending in with the ones from his present. He can see that Marsella and his puppy are quite popular with Paula and Cincinnati. With everyone, really. But he appreciates how the dog's presence contributed to keep the children busy and out of the way. So Andrés and Martín could savor their day freely, undisturbed. 

He also notices how his sweet, easygoing Tatiana is becoming fast friends with Tokyo - and therefore, keeping her distracted and out of Andrés's path, as well. A blessing. Let them dance together and keep Tokyo’s nagging voice away from his ears.

And, against all odds, Andrés is even finding himself developing a soft spot for Denver. Sure, he’s loud, and obnoxious - and definitely more affectionate than he needs to be - but he’s been an adequate best man. Dutiful. Devoted. Andrés doesn't plan on informing Denver of this, obviously. But in truth, he’s charmed by his enthusiasm, by the boy's dedication to making this day absolutely perfect for Martín. Something Andrés can only relate to.

Even Sergio has been a delight. He's warm towards Martín, and not as much of a thorn in his side as Andrés expected. Oh, how he loves seeing his _hermanito_ let down his guard, for once. Sergio will never be a good dancer - or even a decent one, really - but he did try, for Andrés. He did partake in the reception and the music and the _dancing_. Or at least, his version of it.

So this day has proven to be an overall success. A resonating triumph, so far. 

First and foremost, on a personal note. Because it's one of Andrés's days with Martín. 

But also, on a larger scale. Because this is an event that should matter to the guests too, and it has. It has been joyful, and unique, and surprising in so many ways.

To put it simply, everyone got along and enjoyed themselves. Which was perfect, for the occasion to be remembered. For his wedding to be _memorable_. 

But now, it seems Andrés's wedding will be memorable for the wrong reasons entirely.

Because in just a few seconds, all of Andrés's efforts, all the painstaking work he put into crafting a worthwhile event, it all crumbles to the ground.

Suddenly, the music stops, and something in the air feels wrong. Rotten _._ Andrés can feel it in his bones. Most of the guests seem to be flocking towards Sergio, so Andrés regretfully interrupts the riveting conversation he was having with Raquel, and follows the masses. As he walks towards his brother, he gets ready to unleash on him his righteous fury.

But the burning edges of his anger are dulled by his surprise. His confusion. How did Sergio do this? How did he manage, in so little time, to compromise this perfectly balanced ecosystem of excellence that Andrés created? 

His brother blurts out some nonsense about an evacuation plan, but it's to Martín that he speaks the final words. The ones that change and destroy everything.

_We have to go, Martín._

_The police are here._

In an instant, the concept of joy has left the building. But in that same instant, it doesn't matter anymore. None of it does. The reception, and the guests, and their enjoyment, are secondary to their safety. 

Andrés loves these people. Well, some of them. Regardless, they are now in danger because of him. Because he wanted to be romantic, and foolish, and felt the need to show off to Martín and their friends. In _Europe_. Sergio was right all along, wasn't he?

But Andrés was never one to play the blame game. Self loathing is for other people. The weak, the ones who cower in fear when those stronger than them take charge of the situation. Andrés isn't like that. He's a man of action, a wartime leader. His brother, his husband, his _family_ , are in peril. And Andrés will protect them today. With his life, if he has to. Adrenaline flows through him, courses through his veins. Centering him. An unsettling sense of calm, of quiet, washes over him. And he welcomes it. He can do this. _Berlín_ can do this.

“Listen up everyone”, Andrés - Berlín - starts, his voice low but firm. “We will implement the Professor's evacuation plan, and I swear to you that I will keep you all out of harm's way.”

Andrés meets Martín's eyes in a silent apology. But Martín can't be here at the moment. Not his husband, not the man he loves. It’s Palermo that Andrés needs right now. Someone to take charge, someone to lead. Which Martín understands immediately. He always does.

Palermo turns around, already barking orders. His accent is particularly thick as he does.

“Raquel, Nairobi, go to the side windows. See how many cops are out there. Identify the weapons and count the vehicles. Marsella, bring the kids inside, and Raquel’s mother too. Helsinki and Tokyo, look for the rifles, they're taped under the table-

“Martín!”, Sergio nearly shouts.

“What? I think ahead. You're not the only brain of the operation.”

Truly his soulmate. His _engineer_. Andrés can't help but smile at him. 

Then he turns to Helsinki and Tokyo.

“I also sneaked a few handguns inside the flower arch, so look for that too”, Andrés informs them nonchalantly.

“God! I love you so much.”

Andrés allows himself one loving glance at Martín before focusing his attention on his brother again. Who just stares at them both with a horrified look on his face.

“As my husband said, we did come prepared. Aren’t you relieved, Sergio? We took your anxieties seriously, after all.”

“Anyway”, Martín follows, visibly annoyed at Sergio's apathy. “What are the steps of the evacuation plan?”

“Well, it starts with a decoy. It's not ideal, but someone has to be used as bait and-”

“I'll do it”, Andrés immediately steps in. 

“You can't!”, Martín pleads, his voice louder than it should be. “Andrés, _por favor....”_

Sergio winces at the sound, but before he can elaborate on his plan, a scream resonates all around the courtyard. No, not exactly a scream. It takes Andrés a while to identify what it is. Because it doesn’t make sense. And therefore it can’t be.

It’s laughter.

Nairobi's, at first. And then Raquel's. They're both pressed against the massive stone wall, peering through the windows, their bodies shaking, folding over with laughter. Nairobi is holding her sides with both hands as the insane sounds escape her.

Andrés frowns. Women, by nature, are more prone to inappropriate reactions, it's true. But this cannot be. He cannot allow these two, clearly the weakest links, to behave in that way. They're going to induce a mass hysteria. 

He's disappointed in the both of them. There aren't many women he actually respects and admires, and Raquel and Nairobi are among them. Although, maybe they shouldn't be.

“Stop them”, he commands, turning to Sergio.

His brother sports a dumbfounded expression to match Andrés's frustration. And Martín looks as confused as he feels.

“Guys, come over here”, Nairobi shouts, tears of laughter in her eyes. “It's alright, let's just open the doors.”

Andrés rushes to the entrance, his brother in tow. 

“Don't open the door”, Sergio urges. “And please stop laughing, the police will hear you.”

Raquel puts a hand on Sergio's shoulder and looks at him fondly.

“Oh, cariño.. _.”_

She leads him towards one of the windows, and Andrés follows them. He immediately spots the five uniformed officers wandering the gardens, distant and oblivious. They look so out of place among the elegant trees, the bright flowers. Almost eerie. Omens of deaths in a place of life.

“Sergio, do you see any police cars?”, Raquel asks.

“Well, no.”

“What do you see?, she insists. 

Sergio frowns as he looks beyond the gardens, scanning everything methodically.

“Well, there's a vehicle parked over there, but I don't think it's a police van. It looks more like a bus, I don’t know what- oh! Um… I see.”

Raquel smirks at him.

“Exactly.”

Sergio steps away from the window, fumbling. He finds Andrés's eyes and looks terribly embarrassed.

“I'm sorry for the interruption. It seems I was mistaken.”

Andrés doesn't understand. 

Worse. Andrés does understand. 

Maybe he'd have preferred the actual police. That, he could deal with.

Raquel laughs again before kissing Sergio on the cheek, and stepping towards the palace to look for her daughter.

His brother starts another mumbled apology and Andrés ignores him. He looks for Martín once again, spotting him with most of the guests. 

Andrés struggles to settle his nerves, finding difficulty to come down from this energy, this intensity he had to assume just now. He was ready for a fight. For the past few minutes, he was Berlín. Reverting to Andrés is not an immediate thing, now that the danger has vanished. The danger was never there. 

He focuses on his breathing and walks towards the others. The sight of Martín grounds him, familiar and reassuring. An island at sea. A lighthouse in the storm. He smiles when their eyes meet. But his head is still buzzing. Swarming with questions

When Andrés gets within earshot, he notices Martín's best man has been taking control of the situation on his side. Sending people places, blurting out orders. 

“-and I’m taking Río and Julia with me.”

Denver's friend intervenes - the rude one, she's been unpleasant to Andrés earlier - and she decides to contest his order.

“Take Helsinki instead.”

“Why?”

“Just because. Trust me Dani.”

“Alright, Helsinki and whoever, come with me, we’re taking care of this. They're not getting in the building, we're handling everything and getting them out of here. Go, Team Palermo!”

Denver claps his hands like a kindergarten teacher and rushes out the door, Manila and Helsinki in tow. They approach the five _“policemen”_ standing outside, in the distance.

“Martín? Care to explain any of this?”

His husband finally turns his attention to him, and Andrés is surprised to find his face flushed. And with this little, awkward smile he rarely gets. Martín is embarrassed. Which is offensive. He shouldn’t get embarrassed. Not in front of Andrés. Never.

“Yeah, you probably caught on that those aren't cops, right?”

Andrés scoffs.

“Yes Martín, I did notice the horrendous party bus parked right in front of the palace. Hence my question: why are there strippers dressed as cops crashing our wedding?”

“They're not _crashing_ it”, Martín groans, as though that's the part of Andrés's statement that's problematic. “And they're definitely not staying, don't worry. I'm sorry, I didn’t know they would be dressed as cops.”

“But you _knew_ they were coming.”

Well, that makes even less sense.

Martín starts moving his hands as he speaks. Agitated. Annoyed. Andrés fights back a smile.

“They were _supposed_ to come through the back door- No, not _like that!”,_ he specifies when Andrés can't help but widen his eyes. “The actual back door, on the other side of the palace. And as you can guess, they're here because of something that happened at the bachelor party. I trusted Denver and the others with something, and… maybe I shouldn't have.”

“Are you going to elaborate?”

“Nope.”

He looks smug and slightly breathless, following his rushed explanation. Well, half-explanation.

Martín has rarely been this vague, about anything. Even when he fomented his surprise proposal, he didn't behave so strangely. Which is why Andrés never saw it coming. 

Because Martín usually tells him everything. And Andrés trusted that he always would. 

So it's infuriating, being kept out of the loop. Especially when everyone seems to be in on it. Alright, not everyone. Sergio's well-intentioned little outburst is definite proof that he hadn't been informed of the wedding party's shenanigans. 

Andrés wants to ask more questions. Hell, he wants to shove everyone aside and rush to question the unwelcome guests himself. And he's not playing good cop. Not with that burning rage he feels, brimming, deep within himself. Rightfully so. Those men rubbed themselves all over Martín, all of them. And worse, they know something Andrés doesn't. Something Martín has been deliberately keeping from him. So no, he won't be nice. He won't _ask_ as much as he will _demand_ answers. Oh, Andrés hopes they'll be difficult. He hopes they'll give him a reason to shake them up a bit. To beat the answers out of each and every one of them, if he has to. 

He steps towards the entrance, but the doors slam back open before he can implement this course of action. It's just Denver.

“It's okay everyone!”, he loudly proclaims, with a wide smile in Martín's direction. “This is a cop free wedding. No police, just friends. And they're _leaving_. Just play music again or something, the party never stops! Team Palermo is taking care of it.”

Denver rushes toward the musicians, the grating sound of his laughter following behind him.

Andrés turns to his husband again.

“Team Palermo?”, he asks with a smile.

“That's what he calls his bachelor party gang. I told you, he's a great best man.”

“Debatable.”

“Did you know he made tee-shirts? _"Team Palermo"_ in big red letters. They're not bad”, Martín insists, and his tone has Andrés fearing he's not joking. “Don't worry, he saved one for you.”

“How generous”, he mocks. “I cannot wait to wear it.”

Martín beams at him, letting out a sigh of relief.

“So you're not mad?”, he checks, deliciously nervous.

“About those... _professionals?_ Yes. Definitely.”

“About the interruption. About the- what was it? Crafting the perfect atmosphere for a wedding reception?”

Andrés smiles. Martín knows him well.

“Oh, I'm livid”, he replies, but as he does he leans in to press a kiss on Martín's temple - not forgiveness just yet, but comfort. Trust. “I still have questions, though.” 

“And I'm not answering them now.”

Before Andrés knows it, Martín has slipped out of his arms and is walking - racing - towards Sergio. 

Andrés could let it go. Martín strongly implied answers would come to him in good time. He could be patient. He could wait.

He considers it for all of five seconds, before making his decision. 

“Ah, Nairobi. I seem to recall that you offered details about the bachelor party? I'm listening now.”

~ ~ ~

Well, that was fucking something. 

Not at all how Martín expected the day to turn out. Absolutely not. But Andrés has been surprisingly understanding. Kind, _patient._ And not one bit spiteful about the notion that a bus of strippers nearly crashed their wedding reception. 

Which definitely means, without a shadow of a doubt, that Andrés is grilling Nairobi for details right now. Obviously.

Good luck with that.

Andrés thinks she's on his side just because she also attended his snooze-fest of bachelor party at the vineyard. And she did spend a pleasant evening with him, alongside Lisbon, Marsella, Bogotá. _Sergio._ From what Martín heard, the wine was out of this world, they all had a great time, and that's that.

That's all it was to Nairobi. She made a polite appearance, for Berlín's sake. _"Pre-gaming drinks",_ as she called it. Before sprinting out to catch up on the main event. 

So Nairobi is, first and foremost, on Team Palermo. And Andrés is getting _nothing_ out of her. Martín is certain of it.

Still, he needs to make sure Andrés doesn't get any closer to the truth than he needs to be.

“How are we feeling, Sergio?”, Martín asks, with excessive enthusiasm. “Are we done seeing the police everywhere?”

Sergio sighs, closing his eyes as he rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“You could have warned me, Martín”, he starts, lamely. “Denver said they were on their way to a bachelorette party, I believe? Which explains the uniforms- well the costumes, but- I still don't know why they had to be here in the first place.”

Martín puts both of his hands on Sergio's shoulders and gives him a condescending smile.

“I see your lips moving, _hermanito,_ but I don't seem to hear the words you're saying. Was it _"Please forgive me Martín for interrupting your wedding"_ or something like that? If it wasn't, maybe start there.”

Sergio stares back at him, dumbfounded. He sighs again before replying.

“I'm sorry Martín, I really am.”

“Good. Because I have just the opportunity for you to make up for it. See the bus over there? You do _not_ let Andrés approach it, or talk to the strippers. You don't take your eyes off of him, he’s not leaving the courtyard until that bus and its occupants are _gone_. Take him dancing, pitch him a new heist, tie him up, I don't care how you do it, but distract him.”

Sergio squints at him.

“Martín, are you hiding something from my brother?”

Martín just grins and slaps him on the back like he just made a great joke. He kinda did.

“Yeah, Sergio”, he eventually replies. _“Obviously,_ I’m hiding something. Why is everyone so slow today? I’m asking you to do this for me as a favor. Keep my dear husband away from those strippers, and in exchange I’ll make tonight the best night of your life.”

“What do you-?”, he mumbles with wide eyes.

“Sergio, what on Earth are you _thinking?_ Not like _that,_ you perv! I’m a married man, after all”, he adds, thoroughly enjoying his brother-in-law's embarrassment. “No, I have something else in store for you tonight, _hermanito_. You’re gonna love it. But _only_ if you help me with this.”

Sergio rolls his eyes at him before doing as he's asked. 

That was a lie, obviously. Martín has _nothing_ planned out for Sergio. It's Andrés who has been fomenting something. But one of the many great things about being married to Andrés is that Martín can absolutely take shared credit for it. And he’s fucking gonna.

Now that Sergio is sharing an intense, animated conversation with Andrés and Nairobi, Martín finds his own best man again. Denver is standing under the flower arch with part of his wedding party. _Team Palermo_.

“So, who fucked up in the party bus?”, Martín starts.

Denver winces, but it's Tokyo who answers.

“Well, technically, it was _you_ Palermo. You're the first one who left the bus. Your bachelor party, your responsibility.”

“Tokyo, you’re fired.”

“Good.”

The nerve of that woman. She's double-fired now. But he can't tell her that.

“Denver, _please_ tell me it's handled”, Martín asks, instead.

“Yes it is! Julia and Helsinki are on the case. Mónica is helping them set everything up.”

“And you trust them?”

“Palermo, come on...”, Denver protests.

“Just making sure, alright.”

“Uh, guys”, Río chimes in. “Just so you know, the Professor is waving at us right now. I think Berlín is walking out.”

“Fuck! Tokyo, you're un-fired. Go stop him!”

“Fine. But you owe me, Palermo.”

“I don’t owe you shit.”

Tokyo intercepts Andrés right before he gets to the door, and grabs his attention with a sickly-sweet smile and a conversation that's probably going nowhere. But it seems to work. Andrés listens to her, which means she's definitely regaling him with a tale of drunken mistakes and bachelor party hijinks. Perhaps the story of how she and Denver fought for the driver's seat of the party bus while being chased by several police cars. It's Tokyo's favorite anecdote. Martín has heard at least seven different versions of the story. And he was in that fucking bus.

Eventually, Martín spots Manila and Helsinki returning to the courtyard, both with huge smiles on their faces and a spring in their step. Fucking finally.

“It's done, Palermo”, Helsinki offers, and Martín's instinct is to trust him.

“And the bus?”, he asks.

“Just hit the road”, Manila confirms. “Package: secured. Sexy Greek men: gone. Phone numbers: saved.”

Denver laughs.

“No one asked you to get their numbers”, he points out.

“No, that was a self-assigned task. Although, it seems Helsinki already had Hector's number, didn't he?”

Helsinki looks away with a bashful smile, and it's unfair on Martín that he is _just now_ finding out about this juicy piece of gossip. Well, good for him. 

They hear a loud, piercing sound, and turn around to find Tatiana bent over laughing as Tokyo recounts her story. She's not the only one. Besides Andrés, Martín also spots Sergio, Raquel, Bogotá and Marsella gathered around Tokyo. She's no longer just stalling, she's putting on a show apparently. Wonderful.

Denver frowns. 

“Oh my god, she’s not telling that party bus story, is she? I only hit the sidewalk _once_.”

“Hey, I'm on your side”, Martín replies, even though he has no clue who’s right on this. “Say that to her, not me.”

And Denver does exactly that.

“Tokyo, I _know_ you’re telling the story wrong!”, he yells as he runs towards her. “For the _last time,_ no one is calling you _Tokyo Drift_. You chose that nickname yourself!”

“Well you should use it, it’s a great fucking name”, she bites back with a shit eating grin. “It’s not _my fault_ you can’t parallel park a bus, Denver. That’s a very basic skill.”

Martín wants to laugh. 

But when he meets Sergio’s eyes, he’s reminded - a bit too late - that his dearest brother in law wasn't meant to learn the full story of his bachelor party. And based on the look on his face, he definitely knows, now. The car chase, the traffic violations, the arrest warrants. All of it. Well, not _all of it._ Yet. But more than Martín was willing to share, that’s for sure. Sergio will bend his ear in about it at some point, he just knows it. 

A small price to pay. Martín doesn't regret what he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left and I can already tell you that someone _will_ cry  
> (Me, most likely)


	9. Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Was that your plan, Martín?”, Andrés starts, mocking. “Getting me alone in an empty room to have your way with me?”
> 
> He says it with disdain, like the thought doesn't appeal to him at all. Like he isn't the one slowly walking towards Martín. A predator on the hunt.
> 
> “No, that's not why I brought you here.”
> 
> “Really?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CLICK HERE FOR HOT SEXY WEDDING CAKES IN YOUR AREA](https://twitter.com/Shotgun_Cake/status/1288553194919014400?s=19)
> 
> ~~~
> 
> This last chapter is a bit longer than the others. Let's say it's a double feature. A Two-Parter Series Finale. Or something.

Against all odds, the wedding reception recovers its joyful, careless atmosphere. All the hidden weapons are put away where they should be (hopefully). Music plays again. Guests are dancing. Those who aren't sated from an entire day spent eating and partying go sit casually around the table for a light dinner. 

And Tokyo and Denver are still shouting nonsense at each other. 

Or, as they demand to be called, _Tokyo Drift_ and _Baby Driver._ In spite of himself, Martín laughed several times listening to them. And surprisingly, many of the guests remain engrossed in this loud, ridiculous, passionate debate that they're having.

Except Andrés. He seems to be losing interest in their stories. And it's for the best. 

Because Martín is ready for him now.

Everyone is doing their own thing, and he takes advantage of their distraction, seizes this opportunity to sneak behind his husband and steal him away. 

He doesn't even need to say anything. Andrés turns to him and, without a word, takes Martín's hand and follows him inside the palace. 

They move through the corridor, hurried and silent, and the shift in the atmosphere is immediate. Something like sparks in the air, when Martín finds the room he was looking for and drags Andrés inside. He slowly, carefully closes the door behind them, and turns to his husband, dying to witness his reaction. 

But Andrés has yet to see what he wants to show him. He hasn't noticed, hasn't even looked around. He's just staring at Martín, grinning, oblivious. The intensity of his gaze almost has him shivering.

“Was that your plan, Martín?”, Andrés starts, mocking. “Getting me alone in an empty room to have your way with me?”

He says it with disdain, like the thought doesn't appeal to him at all. Like he isn't the one slowly walking towards Martín. A predator on the hunt.

“No, that's not why I brought you here.”

“Really?”

And then he's on Martín, his lips on his neck and his hands on his ass. Pulling him close. Caressing him. Well, this wasn't Martín's plan, at all, but you won't hear him protesting that.

Andrés's mouth is warm and wet against his skin, but his hands are insistent. Martín already feels naked under his touch. And at the same time, he's wearing way too many layers.

“You could've picked a room with a bed”, Andrés breathes into his skin. “Or furniture, at least.”

Martín laughs and weakly - very weakly - tries to push him away.

“I told you Andrés, that's not why I brought you here. You never appreciate my gifts.”

Andrés pulls away at that, and he does take a step back from Martín's burning body.

Then he looks around and his breath catches in his throat.

The room might not have any furniture, but it's not _empty._

Martín's cheeks nearly hurt from how wide he's smiling, overjoyed, delighted at the expression of pure shock on Andrés's face. His wide eyes, his shaky hands. His breathless laughter. 

He turns around on the spot, once, twice, before finding Martín's eyes again.

On every wall, all around them, are paintings. Many, many paintings. 

“Martín, are those the _“Nymphéas”?_ Are Claude Monet's _Waterlilies_ somehow in this room right now?”

“Well, not _all_ of them. He made over two hundred of those, didn't he? I thought they wouldn't miss a dozen or so.”

Andrés stares at him, opens his mouth, but his reply dies on his tongue. He just stands there. Stunned and silent. 

“What? You’re not the only one who can go behind my back and learn tango in secret. I’m mysterious too.” 

Andrés's eyes eventually leave him and he simply looks around, mesmerized. He starts examining the impressionist paintings one by one. Some of them, quite large. His reaction - his fascination - makes Martín's heart flutter in his chest.

Still, he's nervous. He feels the need to fill this silence again.

“Look, I know this isn’t the best gift I could come up with. I mean, I kind of already gave it to you. In Madrid, six months ago. I fucked up with that one, didn't I Andrés? I set the bar way too high. How can I come up with something to give you for our wedding? For every anniversary after that? When you already have the national gold reserves waiting at home? I can only disappoint…”

Andrés huffs, still not looking at him. His hand hovers in front of a painting. _Nymphéas Bleus._ He doesn't touch it, obviously. His hand stops mid-air, as though sensing its presence, feeding off its beauty. He looks enthralled. And beautiful. He should always be in a room full of art. That's where he belongs. That's where he blossoms.

He looks almost in a trance. Both happy and sad, absent and present. His eyes are glazed over, not seeing. Or perhaps seeing beyond what Martín sees. 

The sight of Andrés in such a state is almost too much for Martín. Exceeds all expectations. 

So he keeps rambling on.

“Anyway, I tried to be funny instead. You know that saying about weddings? Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. We're not doing that, obviously. That's old women's superstition, and I know how you feel about that, but- I don't know. I just felt like giving my husband something blue, today.”

And indeed, all of the paintings, all of them, happen to be different shades of blue. Some closer to turquoise, verging on green, some a deep dark blue. Peppered with delicate touches of light and color. Pink flowers in a pond. The soft greens of leaves and vegetation. Reflections of a bridge. Andrés always loved the impressionists. He even mentioned Monet in his wedding vows _himself._ Martín wanted to scream when he did. But he couldn't. Also, crucially, he was pretty busy crying at the time.

Martín might not know a whole lot about art, but he does know Andrés. Quite a bit. At least, he hopes he does.

But his prolonged silence is becoming a problem for Martín. It's unnerving. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

“I guess you can see it as a novelty gift, if nothing else. A practical joke I pulled on a stuffy, poorly secured art gallery in Athens, last week. Gallery that happened to have an extensive traveling collection from France. I had to, Andrés. You know I had to. Just picture it as an artistic performance in your name.”

Andrés finally sets his eyes on Martín again. He's schooled his features, but his eyes- his eyes are boring into Martín. He looks at him like he was looking at the art, just now. Piercing through him, burning his skin, rendering him powerless. Martín wouldn't have Andrés looking at him any other way.

“Your first choice for something blue was to gift me _original Monet paintings?”_

These are the first words Andrés speaks in a really long time. 

“Well… I guess it counts as something borrowed too…”

“Is that what you call borrowed?”

His playful, accusatory tone makes Martín smile. It's nice. Comforting.

“I mean, I borrowed you too, once, didn't I? You don’t see me bringing you back anytime soon.” 

“You didn't _borrow_ _me_ , Martín. You decided I was yours and that's what I became. You _stole_ me. Just like you stole these paintings.” 

Martín gasps in mock outrage.

“Are you calling me a thief?”

Andrés beams, clearly amused.

“Perhaps I am”, he replies, his gaze on Martín growing soft. 

He does look happy.

“So you like the paintings?”

Naturally, Andrés answers his question with another question.

“You did all that on your own?”

“Credit where credit's due, the gang helped. A little bit. And that's why the strippers were here today.” 

Andrés glares at him and Martín rushes through his explanation.

“No! They don't know about the heist, they think those are just reproductions. But we forgot a couple in the party bus. Denver only noticed today, and the guys brought them back on time.” 

Andrés shakes his head at him.

“And here I was, thinking you did nothing but drink and gawk at naked men.”

Well...

“We kind of did that too. After the heist, to celebrate. But Andrés, I planned this for you.” 

Andrés approaches him again, graceful as always. A frown on his face.

“So what I hear is that you had your fun while I was left out. Did everyone know but me? Was my brother involved too?”

“Of course not! We couldn’t include him, he would have snitched. Or tried to stop us. We didn't need Sergio anyway. Once Río took care of the security systems, it was basically a self-service art buffet.”

Andrés clenches his eyes shut and swallows. Hard. As though it physically hurts him to hear the words _“self-service art buffet”_ when he wasn’t included. Either that, or he’s getting angry. That's what it looks like, anyway. Martín is well versed in all of Andrés's facial expressions, his tells. His emotions. 

And he seems, at the very least, displeased. Martín's stomach drops.

Andrés's fingers are twitching by his sides and he wants to hold his hands. But it feels wrong. Everything does.

This is definitely not the reaction Martín had been hoping for. No matter how many times he told himself he was being funny, that it was a quirky gesture, not a real gift, well… Yes it was. It mattered to him that Andrés liked it. He wanted to make him feel even a tiny fraction of what Martín himself feels, every single day basking in his presence. Because he feels impossibly lucky just to be with Andrés. Light-headed, at the notion that he could warrant such attention, such love. 

And he's been foolish. He's caressed the hope that, just this once, he could be the one who would sweep Andrés off his feet. Craft a grandiose surprise, something worthy of him.

But Andrés doesn't see it that way, apparently. He's used to being cherished, and this is just another gift. Martín's gesture means nothing to him. He's disappointed. 

Of course he is.

Suddenly, he's angry at Andrés too. 

“You’re mad at me, aren't you?”, Martín snaps, ashamed of the tremor in his voice. “You're mad because you weren't involved in the heist. Andrés, that was a _surprise._ For _you._ The whole point is that you weren’t there.”

“You’re taunting me, Martín.”

“I'm giving you something that I thought you might like. I guess I was wrong.”

His words seem to confuse Andrés. He tilts his head and really looks at him, as though trying to decipher his thoughts.

“You lied to me”, is what he eventually says.

“Yes, of course. Not to spoil the surprise.”

“I don't mean last week, Martín. You lied to me, just now. It's not a _practical joke_ , like you said it was. You're not trying to be funny. You care about this. You care a lot.”

Fuck.

“Alright, fine. I wanted you to like it, sue me. You're always the one with the big romantic gestures. Today, I wanted to try.”

“Well, you tried.”

Andrés is full on grinning now. He's beautiful, and mocking, and Martín shouldn't want to kiss him when he's like that.

“You know what, I’m going back out there. I’ll talk to my husband when he's stopped being a dick. You’re welcome for the gift, by the way.”

He turns around and nearly runs for the door before he does something stupid. Like cry, or destroy a priceless painting. Both options are definitely on the table right now.

“You're not going anywhere.”

Martín's hand isn't even on the door handle yet when he's being pulled back, unceremoniously flipped around, and pushed against the very door he was trying to open.

“Andrés, I'm-”

A warm pair of lips crash against his, and he receives the kiss like water in the desert. Andrés's hands gently cup his face and Martín pretends he doesn't feel like crying with relief at the softness of his touch. It feels like he hasn't been kissed in years. But now he has, and his sadness, his anger, his disappointment, are all seeping away. 

If this is Andrés's way of showing his appreciation, so be it. Martín pulls away slightly, sighs against his lips and meets his eyes.

“You _do_ like the gift”, he whispers, vindicated.

“Of course I do, Martín. Words cannot express how much I love it. How much I love _you.”_

“You sure have a weird way of showing it.”

“I'm not done yet.”

Andrés leans in again, and it's no longer the tender kiss of a husband. It's insistent. It's selfish. It's what he needs.

Whether he meant to or not, Martín angered Andrés today. He made him jealous. Vengeful and possessive, in the most delightful way. Martín is melting, consistently surprised to elicit such strong reactions from him. Such deep emotions, good or otherwise. He kisses Andrés back with matching intensity, with equal passion, and threads his fingers into his hair, pulling his face closer. 

But Andrés is having none of it. He grabs Martín's wrists and yanks his arms above his head. His hands are now pinned against the wood of the door, and Andrés holds him there.

Forbidden to touch, then. Only allowed to receive, to be kissed, to take it. 

A whine escapes him when Andrés bites at his lip, and he wants to fight back, to touch him, to hold him. He needs to feel Andrés's skin under his fingertips more than he needs air. 

A tongue licks into his mouth and Martín welcomes it like he welcomes everything else Andrés will give him, pliant and grateful. But he needs him closer than that, they both know it.

Andrés hums against his lips, pleased to watch him squirm, and tightens his grip around his wrists, forcibly keeping him in place. 

Martín hates it and he loves it. He yearns to touch him, but he hopes Andrés never lets go of him.

At last, Andrés allows him a reprieve. He leans as close as he possibly can and presses their bodies together. Now, more than ever is Martín aware of how tight his own bespoke suit actually is. Andrés can feel it too, leaning back every time Martín fails to stop the frantic movements of his hips, shameless, desperate for him. 

Andrés should be affected too. And he is, to some extent. But he's exhibiting a level of self-control, of restraint, that Martín could only dream of. 

It's a crying injustice that only Martín should be in such a state, blurring the line between desire and need. Or maybe the line was always blurred for him when it came to Andrés.

Nails dig into the tender skin of his wrists as the assaults on Martín's lips intensify. Another futile whimper escapes him.

And right then, as abruptly as he started it, Andrés ends the kiss. They stay in that position and he just looks at Martín. Angrily. Hungrily. 

Martín's legs might give out any second. Or his lungs. Breathless or not, he still has it in him to resist this unjust torment. He strains against the hands that hold him.

“You know, Andrés, if you wanted to do that, you could’ve just gone for it. I wasn't going to stop you. You know I love it when you get bossy. You don't have to pretend to be mad at me first.”

“Oh but I _am_ mad. I'm furious, Martín. This is the last time you plan a heist alone. Or step foot into a _museum_ without me. I hope that’s clear.”

“Fine”, Martín whines, not caring one bit about that right now. 

Andrés smiles, satisfied, and lowers Martín's aching arms. He doesn't let go of his wrists, though. Just rubs circles on his skin as he holds his arms between them. It's gentle. Calming.

“Why don't you show me again exactly how _mad_ you are, uh? I don't think I got it.” 

Andrés laughs.

“But I would be giving you exactly what you want, wouldn't I?”, he observes. “I wouldn't be _punishing_ you, then. Maybe I shouldn't touch you at all.”

Martín feels his eyes widen, and he's not exaggerating his outrage. His indignation.

“What, are you gonna go on strike?”, he panics. “You can't do that Andrés! Marital duty, remember? You're contractually obligated to fuck me.”

“You will never be an obligation to me, Martín. But you have to know that it's not how it works. At all.”

Things aren't looking good for Martín Berrote, are they?

“So you're really gonna leave me like that?”

“Of course not”, Andrés replies, moving closer again in that predatory way of his. “My _husband_ gave me a gift. A priceless, wonderful gift. I must thank him, and I will…”

Martín leans in for a kiss, but Andrés just puts a finger on his lips.

“...later tonight.”

Martín hears the click of the handle, feels the door shift behind him, and suddenly, finds himself alone. 

Surrounded by paintings, breathless, with his face burning hot. Rock hard in his wedding suit and dying inside.

Happiest day of his life, right? _Longest_ day of his life.

Martín is going to murder someone. That is, if he doesn't die from sheer force of lust, before that. He braces himself against the wall so he doesn't fall to the ground when his legs eventually give out. 

This man is going to be the end of him. His deliverance and his doom. A cruel savior, a benevolent torturer. And even in his state of life threatening frustration, Martín is happy about it.

He hears through the open window the taunting sound of laughter as Andrés steps out into the courtyard again.

“Ah, I see we're cutting the cake now, isn't that splendid?”, he exclaims. “Where is my husband? _Come, Martín.”_

_Yes, he would very much like to._

Is it true, what they say about married people not having sex anymore? Martín's been married for less than twelve hours and he feels like a fucking monk.

“Cariño, you have to see the cake.”

Oh, Andrés is the one who's going to see the cake. Martín will ram his whole face into it. 

He takes a few deep, sharp breaths, adjusts himself in his pants, and makes sure the state he’s in right now is not as obvious to the innocent eye as it is to him. When there’s basically nothing else he can do, Martín follows his husband outside.

The cake is actually a thing of beauty. Martín could have appreciated it, once. A few lifetimes ago, when all of his senses weren't screaming _Andrés_ at him, as though nothing else existed. 

So he tries to focus. Just a few more hours. Cake, toasts from the guests, and Martín will wrap this up faster than if the cops were actually on their way. He can do this. For Andrés, he can wait. Martín's waited before. He's the expert at waiting. An hour or two, tops. He'll be good. He has no other choice. 

Andrés picked a dark chocolate cake, with cherries and rum. It’s artfully topped with pomegranate seeds, blackberries and figs. Juice is dripping along the sides. It does look good. Ostentatious and decadent. But fitting.

Martín definitely focuses on that cake, and not on the way Andrés's fingers flex around the knife as he carefully cuts slices for the both of them.

Still, his mouth waters at the smell. Martín is surprised he still has the capacity to be hungry for something else, besides his husband. That's a relief.

They've agreed there would be no smashing of cake on anyone's face, Andrés insisted on it. He finds it cheap and undignified, and therefore forbade it. Martín knows better than to test him on that. But he does expect Andrés to mess with him in some way. So he braces himself, focused and prepared.

Tradition commands that the newlyweds feed each other cake before anyone else can so much as hold a slice, so all eyes are on them when Andrés lifts the delicious treat to Martín's mouth.

“Open up”, Andrés commands with a satisfied grin. “Come on Martín, I know for a fact that you can go wider than that.”

There it is. 

Martín doesn't let it show that the rude - arousing - comment affects him. But Andrés made the crucial mistake of offering him the slice with his bare hand. So Martín makes a point of looking straight at him as he promptly wraps his lips around two Andrés's fingers when he closes his mouth around a mouthful of cake. 

The strong flavor hits his tongue and invades his senses, and Martín can't help but briefly close his eyes and moan around those fingers. He's not even sure he did it on purpose, too flustered to think properly. But when Andrés withdraws his hand, Martín notices his lopsided smile and the hunger in his eyes. He knows immediately what Andrés is really hungry for.

That being said, it _is_ a good cake. It's thick and heavy on Martín's tongue, and slightly bittersweet is a way that isn't unpleasant. As everything Andrés picks, it's an absolute delight. A sensuous experience.

But in all fairness, it could have tasted like cardboard and he wouldn't have cared. Not right now, not with that _husband_ right before his eyes, staring at him with such intensity.

In turn, Martín takes another slice and brings it to Andrés's mouth. He doesn't have a death wish, so he won't even consider smashing it on his face. Even though Andrés would very much deserve it. But as he feeds his husband this luscious wedding cake, Martín just so happens to be a bit clumsy. How unfortunate. Some of the juicy cherry flavored filling ends up on the corner of his mouth. How could that have happened?

Andrés raises his eyebrows at him, like he knows exactly what Martín is doing. Like Martín will pay for it later. Well, that was a given.

“Hold on, you have a little bit of something there-”, Martín starts, all coyness and fake surprise. “Here, let me just-”

The ever dutiful husband, he leans in and kisses the sweetness off his lips. He briefly darts his tongue out, making sure to get everything, before pulling away, very happy with himself. It was rather chaste, really. But they can both sense the heat between them. The weight of what's coming later. It's heavy. Electric. 

Andrés puts on an unaffected demeanor, a perfect mask of composure that could fool almost anyone, and proceeds with the cake cutting. 

Raquel has to stop him from handing a slice to Paula, because _“there's alcohol in this, Andrés”._ To which he scoffs. _“There's fruit too, Raquel. It's not just a cake, it's a work of art. You're depriving her of a unique experience.”_

Martín laughs softly as he finds his seat at the table next to Andrés, ready for some toasts. This ought to be good. People are going to talk about Andrés, about _them,_ and Martín can just stare at his beautiful face as he basks in the attention. A very fine activity, indeed.

Sergio stands up first, and gives a short and heartfelt toast full of well wishes for the happy couple. He does steal a few glances at Raquel as he rambles on about love for a bit and she's beaming back at him. 

He then extends a warm welcome to Martín as part of the family, and isn't that something.

“-by the way, Martín, this is an outstanding invitation for you to be on my team for game night. I love you, Andrés, but you're not a team player.”

Martín has to stifle a laugh at the look of pure outrage on his husband's face.

“Oh, believe me, I know. And a sore loser too.”

“You know him”, Sergio continues, delighted to have found an ally against the most shameless Monopoly cheater to ever walk this Earth. Good luck convincing Andrés not to steal from the bank because it's _against the rules._ What Sergio doesn't know is that Andrés is the decoy. He gets caught on purpose so Martín can rearrange their hotels. Obviously.

Sergio raises his glass one last time towards the grooms, and concludes his speech.

“So I want to thank you, Martín. For everything. For the Bank of Spain too, of course. For not getting caught by the police last week for what I just learned was _a museum heist”,_ he adds, rolling his eyes. “But mostly, I want to thank you for taking this one off my hands. I only have one brother, and you've proven time and time again that I can trust you with him. I probably shouldn't. But I do. To Andrés and Martín!”

People cheer and raise their glasses, and Andrés's hand finds Martín's under the table. His only display of emotion at Sergio's words, like a secret between them. 

Denver enthusiastically follows with his own toast, not as emotional, but filled to the brim with riveting anecdotes from the wedding planning and the bachelor parties. Stories that Andrés can finally appreciate, now that he has the whole context of that night. Now that he knows full well who Martín was thinking about, the entire time. 

Sergio's face goes through all five stages of grief several times while Denver speaks, so he probably knew way less than he previously claimed. Well. He still smiles at Martín when he meets his eyes, so that's a win. 

And of course, Denver makes an inane joke. He had to.

“-so I'll finish up, but just remember you two: please, _please_ be careful tonight. You don’t want mini-Berlíns and mini-Palermos running around in nine months, am I right?”

Andrés is the first one to laugh. To everyone's surprise, Andrés himself included. But the genuine, beautiful sound drowns out everything else. 

Denver looks so fucking happy at his reaction. Martín already knows this isn't the last time he hears that joke. Well, it's not his worst. 

Then Lisbon asks for everyone's attention. She's still wearing the toga they had her wear to officiate the wedding, but her hair is down now. Even to Martín, she looks stunning. Andrés squeezes his hand and they share a smile. 

Raquel starts off by congratulating them both, and raving for a while about what a joyful, mildly dysfunctional family they all are. 

She thanks Andrés and Martín for spending so much time with Paula, reading to her, teaching her to bake, and the little girl starts sending her mother death glares, embarrassed. 

But Raquel’s speech is actually quite touching. 

Andrés and Martín both raise their glasses towards her in support. In anticipation.

Then Raquel turns her attention to her left, where Sergio is sitting next to her at the table. He looks like a deer in headlights already. Oh, this is gonna be great. 

“Sergio, I'd like to take this opportunity to tell you something. As your brother keeps saying, this is a day of joy, of love and spontaneity.”

“She listens!”, Andrés boasts, extremely proud.

Raquel ignores him and keeps talking.

“I think you should know that, especially on a day like this one, I realize how incredibly lucky I am to have met you. To share my life with you.” She lets out a little laugh and adds: “And quite frankly, you're lucky I'm here too. Because Plan A had me on the witness stand at your trial.”

Sergio pulls a face and Martín is cracking up already. He's not the only one, the whole table is struggling to hold back their laughter. Denver isn't even trying to. 

“But you see, Sergio, I have a problem now”, Raquel announces, her tone suddenly very serious. “As an inspector, it was my mission to find you. Which I did, by the way. Let the records show that _I caught you._ But I never got to lock you up. And now that I can't use the Spanish prison system for that, it seems I'm going to have to lock you up the old fashioned way.” 

It's becoming quite obvious what's happening. Raquel looks into her bag, and produces a box. It's too big to be holding a ring, but most of the guests still gasp at the sight. 

It seems Sergio has finally caught up. He stands up and stares at Raquel with wide eyes, in disbelief. In awe.

“You've already told me that we're family, and that you want us to grow old together. But today felt like the perfect occasion to make it official. So, I'm asking you. Salva. Professor.” She smiles. “Sergio. Will you marry me?” 

She opens the box, and Martín is baffled to spot what looks like a phone charger inside.

“Since I keep borrowing yours.”

Sergio laughs and nearly stumbles in his rush to pull Raquel into a kiss, hugging her with shaky arms. Then he takes both of her hands, the widest smile appearing on his face. The fact that there are also tears streaming down his face as he smiles makes him look like a lunatic. But in a sweet way.

Martín is happy for them. It dawns on him that Sergio hasn't answered yet. That he's struggling to speak, choked up as he is. But none of the guests seem to need a worded answer before they start clapping and cheering for them. Martín eventually reads the words _“yes, of course, yes”_ on Sergio's lips, a split second before Paula jumps in his arms and he tearfully returns her hug.

Sergio has never looked like that. At least, Martín has never seen him in that state. Not earlier today, after the ceremony. Not when they escaped the MINT, and not when they escaped the Bank either. Not even a few months ago, when Martín enlisted Paula to give him a Trinidad Scorpion. One of the hottest peppers in the world. As a father's _day “gift”,_ obviously. Sergio can’t refuse her anything, so of course he took a bite. And sorely regretted it. 

And yet, the state he’s in right now is somehow worse than that. It's almost worrying.

Andrés seems to notice as well.

“I didn't look like that, did I? When _you_ proposed?”

Of course he didn’t. Andrés has poise, gravitas. He always carries himself with elegance, an effortless grace, even in deep emotion. 

But Martín isn’t going to tell him that.

“Actually, you looked worse. Sergio’s more composed than you were.”

“Now you're just being mean.”

“No, I loved it. I've never seen you cry like that. Such a beautiful mess.”

Before Andrés can ask for a divorce, someone else asks for his attention. A shaken, beaming Sergio is rushing towards them, Raquel in tow.

Andrés stands up immediately to wrap his brother in a tight hug. Martín and Raquel mirror them.

“Didn't I tell you, hermanito? The perfect setting for a proposal!”

Andrés hugs Raquel as well, and Sergio stares at him in shock.

“Andrés, you knew about this?”

He laughs.

“Of course I did. It's _my wedding._ Nothing flies without my knowledge or consent.”

“You forbade me from proposing today! You told me proposals at weddings are- what was it? Vulgar and tasteless?

“I never said such a thing”, Andrés insists, and Martín wasn't there, but he is one hundred percent positive that he did, in fact, say that to Sergio. Those words exactly.

God, how Martín loves him.

Andrés keeps going.

“However, I did trust our dear Lisbon to do something tasteful. And she did not disappoint. What a great wedding gift, to see my beloved brother sobbing.”

“Andrés, I'm not-”

“Congratulations, Sergio!”, Martín chimes in. 

He was feeling ignored. He's also genuinely happy for the both of them, of course. He can have two reasons to cut him off. 

Martín wraps Sergio in a hug and whispers in his ear: “thank you _hermanito,_ this was very entertaining.”

When he pulls away, Martín has a shit eating grin. Sergio is still staring at the both of them, in a state of deep confusion.

“But I thought you wouldn't want to be upstaged at your wedding…”

Martín laughs and claps him on the shoulder. Probably harder than he needs to.

“Sergio, where are your glasses?”

“I’m wearing them.”

“Are you sure? Then you probably need new ones. Have you even _seen_ us today, Sergio? Have you taken a good look at your brother? My _husband?_ Just look at him! No one is getting upstaged today.”

Martín has barely reached the end of his sentence when he feels Andrés's hands on him and is pulled into a kiss. 

Sergio laughs, and goes back to receiving congratulations from the guests. Martín doesn't give him a second thought. Not when Andrés is kissing him like that. 

A day of love and spontaneity, indeed. The romantic atmosphere that was set by the proposal is deeply affecting them both. Well, that, and the little, insignificant detail that Andrés became his fucking _husband_ today. That probably plays a part too, if Martín had to guess.

He can feel the curve of Andrés's smile, and his lips are still sweet from their wedding cake. Martín cannot wait to taste the rest of him. 

He's even surprised to hear no protestation from anyone at yet another display of affection. Their guests must be getting tired.

Well, better enjoy it while it lasts. Martín fears this is probably the very last time no one bats an eye at the sight of them feasting on each other's mouths. Let's make it count.

Andrés laughs when Martín pushes him against the table and wraps himself all around him, but he does feel the heat radiating from him. They're not even kissing anymore, just standing with their bodies pressed together, staring in each other’s eyes, burning with desire.

“Hey, there are children here!”

Andrés turns to Denver with a polite smile.

“And I believe it's way past their bedtime, isn't it?”

This seems to conclude the festivities. At least the ones that include guests. Lord knows Martín isn't done celebrating. Not today. Not ever, perhaps.

Sergio makes his exit, with his now fiancée and their family. Nairobi and Bogotá stay overnight, mentioning a fertility window or something equally gross, and Martín prays with all his heart that the palace is big enough.

Tokyo stays as well, and she is a surprisingly gracious guest, smiling at Andrés at every chance she gets. It's unnerving. But her unusual civility probably means she's a little drunk. Tatiana kindly wraps an arm around her waist to help her up the stairs before they disappear for the night.

Martín isn't actually sure how many of the guests are sleeping over. His own best man did inform him that he and his family were staying for a few days at least. Because apparently, _the party never stops._ But Denver better not be hoping to see the grooms a lot during that time. God, no. 

The party is very much over.

And the honeymoon just began.

Andrés and Martín made a point of saving an entire floor of the palace just for themselves. Or rather, they casually mentioned to their lovely guests which bedroom they claimed as their honeymoon suite, and it turns out everyone managed to find some space on a different floor. How convenient.

The last thing Andrés did, before officially ending the reception, was recruiting everyone to carry into their room the many paintings he was gifted today. Martín blushed at the gesture. Then he promptly sent all the guests away. Not that anyone wanted to stick around anyway.

Which is how they ended up here, in the most lavish, luxurious bedroom of the castle, slow dancing lazily across the marble floors. With art all around them.

It's nice. Martín was expecting Andrés to throw him on the bed the minute they were alone - he was expecting _himself_ to start clawing at Andrés's clothes immediately. And they will. The night is still young. 

But the softness of this moment, the simplicity of sharing one last dance with his husband at the end of their wedding day… That's not something Martín ever thought he would experience. He feels lightheaded. He's thankful Andrés is holding him so close, because he just might fall to the floor never to get up again. That's definitely a possibility.

“What are you thinking about, _querido?”,_ Andrés whispers in his ear.

“I'm wondering how long Sergio is gonna scream at us when we him about Germany.”

“Oh, we're not telling him”, Andrés replies, and Martín hears the smile in his voice. “Or we tell him after our return. We should bring him a snow globe or some souvenir. You'll think of something.”

Martín knows they're being grossly irresponsible. But they're on the continent already. It would be a shame not to take this opportunity to honeymoon across Europe. Posing as tourists, obviously. Martín's suitcase is packed full of ugly wigs and horrendous fake moustaches and beards. You can get anywhere with the right disguise. Even museums in Berlín. 

Not that they're planning any heists, of course. They're taking a break from work, it's their honeymoon after all. That being said, Martín isn't above improvising a little something on the spot, if his husband happens to see something he likes. That's just basic etiquette. 

Martín laughs into Andrés's neck. When Sergio finds out, he's gonna want to call the cops on his brother himself. 

Now with the prospect of many more days filled with love and art in Europe, Andrés has stopped whining about his husband raiding an art gallery _without him._ Martín even catches him stealing glances at the paintings around them. 

“You really like them, uh?”

“How could I not? No one knows me like you do, Martín.” He gives him a short kiss before adding. “No one _loves_ me like you do. But I'm afraid it's not the paintings I feel like looking at right now.”

“Oh, and what are you looking at?”

Andrés traces a finger under Martín's eye, staring at him intently to prove his point.

“You know… Something blue.” 

Martín should burst out laughing. He should find it ridiculous. And cliché. And cheesy. But Andrés keeps looking at him, and for some ridiculous reason, Martín feels warmth rising in his cheeks. He feels like Andrés isn’t mocking him. Not even a little.

Andrés sighs.

“What a waste. A dozen originals by Monet and no one to look at them…”

“But you will”, Martín retorts, with more confidence than he feels. “Because it’s my wedding gift to you. If I have to think about what you can do with those legs every time I hear tango music, you have to look at the paintings once in a while. It’s a rule.” 

“I'm not half the dancer you are, Martín.”

It's not like Andrés to be modest. Martín doesn't hate it.

“So I still have a few tricks to show you, then.”

“Will you teach me?”, Andrés asks, more serious than the situation warrants. “I need to get better at this.”

“You don’t _need_ to do anything, Andrés.”

“Oh, but I do. I need to keep up. Or haven’t you heard? My _husband_ is from Argentina.” 

Martín sighs, but he smiles all the same. A silly, blissful, unabashedly giddy smile. 

He pulls Andrés into another kiss and holds him close. When he closes his eyes, Martín feels an ocean breeze against his skin. He smells the salt water all around him, and he hears the waves crashing against the side of the boat. For just a moment, Martín is at sea, in the arms of the man he just proposed to. The man who said yes to him six months ago. The man who said yes to him today. 

He thinks about what Andrés said earlier. In accusation. In mockery. 

_You decided I was yours and that's what I became. You stole me._

Which isn't just ridiculous, it's also plain wrong. It was _Martín_ who belonged to him. From the very beginning. Long before Andrés actually became his, too. Sometimes, it still feels like he isn't. Being in his presence is something Martín experiences like borrowed time. Something that's meant to end. It feels like he should return Andrés, somehow. Bring him back to the museum where he belongs, to be worshiped by the masses, like the work of art that he is.

But Martín never returned Andrés. And if he's allowed, he never will. He is a thief after all. They both are. Stealing is what they do. 

And isn't that what they also did, today? 

They made a vow. 

They stole each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much for reading this. For tagging along for the ride and letting me know what you thought. It was a pleasure to write this, and a privilege to get to share it.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> UPDATE: Absolutely [gorgeous edits](https://puduhegepa.tumblr.com/post/625068102154059776/im-back-with-more-content-for-something) have been made by the wonderful _puduhegepa_ for this story, and I still fail to process this. She also created [these amazing gif stories](https://puduhegepa.tumblr.com/post/624913038678589440/something-stolensomething-blue-by) for the entire fanfic, and oh boy, you are in for a Treat™ 
> 
> ~~~
> 
> 💙 💙 💙 💙 💙 💙 💙 💙 💙

**Author's Note:**

> Don't hesitate to talk to me I'm nice:  
>  **@[ _shotgun-cake_](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com)** on Tumblr  
>  **@[ _Shotgun_Cake_](https://twitter.com/Shotgun_Cake?s=09)** on Twitter


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